


Abandoned Snippets and Vignettes

by nwspaprtaxis



Series: Stairway 'Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe – Domestic, Angst, Dean has a kid, Disabled Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mutism, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2020-10-21 19:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20698700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: What it says on the tin - bits and pieces written for Stairway 'Verse that I've long since abandoned and have no desire or itch to complete, but needed to get off my harddrive so they can stop making me feel guilty. Each chapter was intended to be an entire fic and all the chapters are in chronological order according to Allie's age.





	1. Two Paths You Can Go By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Dual timeline - one occurring four years and the other four months before **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees**. 
> 
> My vision for this fic was to explore Dean's career-ending injury.
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited.

NOVEMBER 2000

“So, what’s your name, stranger?” The bartender grins at the barely-legal-looking kid, wiping a glass dry. His ID tells her he’s twenty-two, but she isn’t entirely sure if she believes it. She doesn’t press the issue. “I’m Cynthia.”

“Dean,” he mumbles, his voice surprisingly deep and choked-off sounding, as though he’s about to cry or had been crying. He glares at her and tosses back his whiskey. “I’ll have another?” It comes out more question than statement and she has the inexplicable urge to take him home, much as one would to an abandoned puppy.

She doesn’t, though, and pours him another shot, slides it toward him. His fifth. She knows she should cut him off — he’s clearly drunk enough — but something painful and raw-edged in his eyes stop her and she allows him to drown his sorrows.

* * *

MAY 2005

He climbs the stairs cautiously, every sense alert and hyperaware of his surroundings. He finds purchase on the third floor landing. He keeps his gun extended before him, bracing his arm against his other. He casts the magalite beam about and never sees the chest of drawers slam into him, the force of impact, sending him flying through the window, shards of glass exploding around him. 

He never feels the crash.

* * *

NOVEMBER 2000

His hands are clamped around her shoulders desperately, his lips ravishing hers. She wraps her arms around his neck, shoving down his flannel shirt as he fumbles at her jeans, their movements uncoordinated and rough. They somehow manage to untangle and divest themselves of layers while stumbling in the general vicinity of her bed. Together, they collapse on the covers and burn.

* * *

MAY 2005

“Dean,” Dad’s voice is all wrong — too gentle with soft whispers and a horrible begging quality to it — and Dean can barely feel the strong grip Dad’s got on his hand. He knows it has to be bruising but it feels insubstantial. “Don’t let go. Not yet.” Rain spatters on his face. He wants so badly to make it better, to tell Dad he’s not going anywhere. That he doesn’t have any plans to go anywhere. But he can’t seem to find his voice and he’s cold and so so so tired.

He forces his eyes open but his vision keeps blurring and his eyelids feel heavy.

There’s no pain and it feels kind of like he’s floating, detached, on the outside looking in. And there’s a sad-eyed girl with chin-length black hair. He opens his mouth to call out to her but nothing comes out. Then there’s the sound of wailing sirens but it sounds muffled and far away.

“It’s not your time yet,” the girl says and pain explodes around him. He screams once before he’s plunged into nothingness.

* * *

NOVEMBER 2000

She wakes up alone and naked, the sheets tangled around her legs. There is no sign of Dean and she somehow knows he’s long gone and she’s never going to see him again. Oddly, she isn’t as upset as she probably should be. She places her hand on her abdomen and reaches with the other for her cell phone. Her fingers brush against a piece of paper and she picks it up.

In blocky, careful, print is the name Dean Winchester Singer and beneath it is a number. She recognizes the area code as a South Dakota one.

She doesn’t call.

* * *

MAY 2005

He swims and swims and swims through the murky gray-brown-green, struggling to the surface. And every time he gets close, catching the sound of beeping or the smell of disinfectant, he spirals back under.

* * *

JULY 2001

She’s straddled on a gynecology chair, her legs spread wide, feet freezing in the stirrups, screaming at the unbearable, unimaginable pressure deep within her groin. 

There’s a reprieve in which she’s allowed a few scant moments to breathe. A nurse crouches between her legs while another dabs at her forehead with a damp cloth.

Then there’s another contraction and, with it, the unrelenting, incredible urge to push.

* * *

JUNE 2005

Finally, finally, ages later, he comes around. There’s the sharp smell of antiseptic and the feel of scratchy sheets. He pries open his eyelids and there’s too much white, too much brightness. He blinks — agonizingly, excruciatingly slow — and nothing changes. His head is clearer than it’s been in a long time.

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” a gruff voice says to his left. 

He rotates his head toward the sound and sees a familiar face underneath the trucker hat. He loses his footing and struggles to fit together all the clues, coming up with three or five every time he adds two and two.

“Wha’ppen’d?” his voice comes out muffled and slurred, as though it’s been packed in cotton along with his brain. “Wh’r…”

Luckily Trucker-Hat — Bobby his brain belatedly, helpfully, supplies — seems to get it and leans forwards in his seat, smoothing out the plastic tubing that tapers into a needle taped to the back of his hand. “You’re at Sioux Falls General,” he says softly. “Hospital,” he amends and Dean nods slightly, talking suddenly seeming like too much work. “It was touch-and-go there for a while. You busted up your leg pretty good…” another pause. “I’m sorry, son. Welcome to retirement.” 

Dean swallows. “Dad…?”

Bobby’s gaze darkens. “Got a lead. Took off a week and a half ago. Haven’t heard from him since. Get some sleep. This is only your second day out of ICU.”

“H’w’ng?”

Bobby looks at him, confused.

“L’ng?” Dean manages.

“You were in ICU for going on near two weeks. Not sure how long you’ll be in here… might be a while.”

Dean nods and for some inexplicable reason he feels like crying. He stares up at the ceiling tiles, refusing to let the burning tears fall. When a rogue droplet slips free and rushes into his ear, he closes his eyes and turns his face away from the older man, burying it into the pillow. He feels more than hears a sob rip from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and aching.

“It’s gonna be okay, kid. I gotcha.”

* * *

JULY 2001

She’s in a hospital bed, clad in a fresh jonny, all pain forgotten. She is still slightly sore, her stomach still a bit puffy, but none of that matters. Her whole world tunneled down to the infant in her arms. She raises a finger and brushes the child’s bald temple, lowering it to caress the tiny clenched fist.

She doesn’t look up at the nurse with the forms. “Her name is Alexis. Alexis McGruen,” she says, finally answering the question. “And, no, there is no father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	2. The Stores are All Closed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Takes place about a month before **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees**. 
> 
> My vision for this fic was to introduce Allie and detail Dean first meeting and adopting his daughter.
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited.

“DEAN WINCHESTER!”

Dean flinches as Bobby’s bellow slices through the salvage yard.

“Yes?” He asks, twisting and projecting what he hopes is a winning smile that doesn’t stick as he wipes his hands clean on a rag and reaches for his crutches.

Jamming the hard pads into his armpits, he hobbles, right leg completely elevated, to where Bobby is standing.

The older hunter is livid and he instantly feels like he’s seven and accidentally let Sammy color in that book of runes again.

“You gave my personal number to some girl out in Arizona?” He growls. “What are you, an idijit? I’m not a dating service.”

“Wha—? N-no! I’d never do that!”

“Well you did at least once. Just got a phone call from some hospital down in Tucson. Here’s the number.” He shoves a torn piece of looseleaf at him. “You deal with the mess.”

* * *

Dean gimps into the library and makes his way to the couch, where he backs up to it slowly, balancing himself precariously for a moment before allowing himself to drop onto the cushions. He simultaneously sets his crutches on the floor as he settles. He props his foot on the coffee table and exhales.

Bobby doesn’t say anything and leans over his desk, handing him a beer.

Dean dry-swallows, doesn’t meet Bobby’s gaze as he accepts the bottle and uses his ring to pop off the cap. “I’ve got a kid,” he says softly, rolling the cap over in his fingers. “Her mom’s dead and my name’s on one of the documents as the father.” He takes a long swig. “I’m going down to Tucson in the morning. D’you think you could give me a lift to the Greyhound Station? I can’t drive…” He scrubs his face with his hand, looks heavenward. “Jesus, Bobby. What am I gonna do?”

There’s a beat, then: “Well, for starters, you’re going to haul your ass down there to confirm that the brat’s not yours. In the off chance she is, you’re gonna man up and do the right thing. I’ll get your record and social security number cleaned up a bit and you’re going to retire and raise her as Dean Winchester, civilian. What time does the Greyhound leave?”

* * *

Tucson is hot. The heat is dense, oppressive, despite the arid, desert climate. The first thing he does is to peruse the tourist pamphlets in the and after five minutes of flirting with the barely-legal, very pregnant, gas station cashier, he finds out about the bus stop on the corner and which bus would take him to the hospital scrawled on the paper he’s got in his duffel.

* * *

“Mr. Winchester, I am so glad you were able to come. Your name and number was found among Cynthia McGruen’s papers and I am pleased you were able to make the trip, especially in your condition.” Her eyes rake up and down his crutches, his leg, judging and apprising. And he feels inadequate in his ripped jeans, biker boots, and oversized leather jacket. He figures the duffle bag slung over one shoulder probably doesn’t help his image.

He follows her into a small office; the plush carpet muffling his crutches and it’s a bit harder to maneuver than the linoleum. 

She gestures at him to sit and he allows the duffel to slip from his shoulder before sidling himself into the chair. It’s hard, uncomfortable, but it’s a relief after being upright for so long. He exhales as he shifts his leg. “Thanks,” he says.

The social worker nods.

* * *

The sight of the girl steals his breath away. For a moment it’s like looking into a warped funhouse mirror at his younger self. She’s taller than he expected and, at the same time, small for her age — not that he’d know the average height of a pre-kindergarten-aged kid — and she seems so fragile, swallowed up in too big, obviously well-worn clothes. Her blonde hair is the pale color of corn, messy and frizzled, as though no one had taken the time to brush it out, and tangled up into a ponytail.

But the giveaway is her eyes — too large and green in a fair, freckled face.

They’re his.

He bends as well as he can, lowering himself closer to her height despite his crutches. “Hey there,” he says and offers her a smile.

* * *

“Okay, honey, you’re just going to feel a tiny stick and it’ll be over,” the middle-aged phlebotomist preps the needle.

The girl’s eyes grow even huger, her mouth working as though she’s about to scream or cry.

“Hey, wait,” Dean interrupts. “Would it be okay if she sits on my lap?” He barely waits for the reply as he limps over to her, the rubber tips of his crutches squeaking on the linoleum. 

The phlebotomist pauses and nods. 

Dean lets out a relieved exhale. “Get up,” he tells the still-fearful toddler, who readily obeys him, lower lip still wobbling. “It’s okay,” he tells her, sitting on the chair. “C’mere.” he reaches, picks her up and sits her on his left thigh. “I don’t like needles either,” he whispers into her ear as the phlebotomist swings the armrest in front of them. He stretches out her arm, holding it steady against the Formica, the back of her hand cupped in his palm. He curls his fingers over hers and squeezes them reassuringly. 

“Go ahead.” He nods at the technician. “You can do both of us.”

* * *

Dropping onto one of the rubber-upholstered waiting-room chairs, Dean props his crutches against the wall behind him. Reaching out, he picks up the girl and settles her besides him. She’s clutching the sickly-yellow sucker the phlebotomist had given her and still hasn’t said a word or made a sound. He finds it a bit unnerving.

She blinks up at him; her eyes still scared and round. She frowns and holds out the lollipop. Belatedly, Dean remembers the grape one he’d lifted from the candy jar and digs it out of his jacket pocket. “Wanna trade?” he asks. 

She accepts the purple candy and gives him the yellow.

Dean watches her struggle with the wrapper, tiny fingers slipping on the cellophane. “Hey, lemme help.” He takes it from her, does quick work of the clear wrapper, stuffing the trash into his pocket, and hands her treat back to her.

She looks up at him and waits.

“It’s okay. Go ahead.”

She stares at him, what are you, stupid? written all over her face.

And he gets it.

He tears off the wrapping to his own sucker and sticks it into his mouth. He wrinkles his nose at the sharp, fake-lemon taste of the yellow, thinking enviously of the purple. 

The girl gives him a shy, tentative smile that falls off her face far too quickly.

* * *

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean starts awake and sees a nurse standing before him, dressed in simple blue scrubs. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs as he straightens, wincing as his leg sends a bolt of pain into his hip and knee. “I thought…” He glances down and sees the girl’s curled up in a tight ball on herself, not touching him but not leaving him either. 

He sees her shiver and slips off his leather jacket and smoothes it over her.

“She yours?”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t know yet. Could be. We’re waiting on the paternity test.”

* * *

When the social worker comes in, she tells him that he has to leave.

* * *

He takes her down to the hospital cafeteria.

* * *

The trial’s easier than he’d anticipated. In fact it’s kind of a joke, more formality than anything else. There’s no one there except for him, the state-mandated social worker, and the tiny girl in a slightly too-large gray-and-navy-blue-plaid Catholic-School jumper who still hasn’t spoken a word before a relatively imposing judge. He’s inexplicably sad that there’s no one else there to challenge him on his rights, that the toddler is even more alone than he was at her age. At least then he’d had Dad and Sammy…

She’s sitting very still beside the social worker, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the rounded collar of her blouse stiff and itchy-looking, blonde hair rippling down just past her shoulders in tangled curls, ragged bangs hanging in her eyes. She turns her head and leans around the social worker, meeting his gaze. She doesn’t smile and her eyes are wide and green, sad and frightened, far too old for someone her size.

He flashes her a bright grin, raises his hand, and mouths “Hi.” She immediately jerks, facing straight ahead again, body tense and at attention.

The judge merely flips through his thin file and Dean vows to buy Bobby a lifetime supply of dog kibble and beer if this goes through. His record is clean, with the exception of a couple of minor traffic violations and he’s got a recommendation from Bobby attesting to his work as an auto mechanic at the salvage yard and there’s a character reference from Pastor Jim Murphy as well as a woman by the name of Ellen Harvelle he’s never met or even heard of. He guesses his GED is in there too, somewhere.

The judge clears his throat. “I have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean straightens, feeling constrained by his consignment shop suit. He resists the urge to tug at the too-small neck. Whoever’d owned this one before him was a shrimp. “Yes, your honor?”

“How do you plan on supporting Alexis? You have no permanent residency, you’re disabled…” Dean winces at his word choice. “You have a GED with very little formal education as far as your record shows. Tell me why you would make a suitable guardian for Alexis?”

“I-I…” Dean clears his throat, takes a deep breath. “I know I don’t have a lot going for me, your honor, and I don’t know how to be a father, but I do know what it’s like to lose a mother and I am in the process of obtaining SSDI for the time being, which will provide us both with income as well as benefits, and I can supplement that by fixing cars. I have a brother who lives out in Palo Alto, California and he has offered me — us — a place to stay until I can find an apartment.” Dean pauses, trying to remember the information on the leaflet the hospital gave him ages ago, silently apologizing to Sam, hoping his brother wouldn’t mind the lie. “She’ll have shelter, food, family. It won’t be much, but she’ll have what she needs. Everything else is just details.”

The judge is silent and then makes a harrumph sound. “So you’re planning on moving her out to California?”

“Yes sir.”

“What about love? Emotional stability?” The social worker pipes up. “He mentioned all the physical necessities, but there is far more to that when it comes to raising a child.”

“Mr. Winchester?”

“She will be loved. She already is. She’s my daughter. It’s that simple. I’d give her the world if I could. I just wish I knew about her sooner.”

The judge nods slowly. “Pastor Murphy mentioned your loyalty to family. Good to see he wasn’t wrong.” He turns to the social worker. “May Miss McGruen please step forward?”

The social worker slowly rises and takes the girl by the hand, leading her to the judge. 

“Alexis,” the judge’s voice is gentle, warm, and Dean gets the sense he has kids of his own. Maybe even grandkids. “You look very pretty today, did anyone tell you that?” The girl doesn’t reply, doesn’t acknowledge his question. “You were very patient and you had such good behavior — much better than most big people I see here.” He gives her a smile that she doesn’t return. “I’m just going to ask you a question and then we can go.” Again, she doesn’t react. “I know you’re not talking and that’s okay, but can you just nod yes or no for me?”

There’s a moment of hesitation then a tiny bob of her head.

“I know this is probably very confusing for you and you’re scared but—“

Christ, Dean thinks. Just ask the damn question. She’s four-frigging-years-old and barely answering yes-or-no questions. Quit rambling and cut to the chase.

“—that man wants to be your Dad and take you home with him. Do you want to go?”

Dean’s breath stutters and stops.

The girl twists around, looks over her shoulder at him. The social worker tugs at her hand and she turns back.

“Do you want to go with that man over there?” The judge is patient.

There’s a tiny hiccup of sound and the girl bobs her head again.

“May it be noted in the court register that Miss McGruen consents to Dean Winchester being her parent and guardian. Mr. Winchester, any questions?”

“No, your honor.”

“Court is adjourned.” He steps off the podium and disappears through a set of double doors.

“I was hoping you’d get custody,” the social worker says stepping up to him as he leverages himself upright with a grimace and a soft grunt. “Crutches and all, you’re still better than most I see who come through here.”

“What was all that about emotional well-being?”

“Just covering my bases.” She shrugs. “It’s protocol. Besides, the state’s strained enough as it is. It’d be a shame for her to be a ward when there’s someone who wants her.” She gives him a soft smile. “Good luck in California. I wish you the best.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Outside, Dean slumps against the stucco of the building, drained from the proceedings. The day is hot and dry. He reaches up with one hand and loosens his tie, unbuttons the top two buttons of his too-small collared shirt. He fumbles and pulls out his cell phone. Punching in the speed dial to Bobby’s, he lets the phone ring until the answering machine picks up — “Hey. Uh. Thanks. For that. Back there, in the courtroom. Thank Pastor Jim and that Ellen Harvelle for me, okay? I dunno how the hell you did pulled it off but, uh, she’s mine.” A pause. “Fuck, Bobby. I’m a fucking father now.” He takes a breath, “Damn, you should see her… she’s so little.” He exhales slowly. “How did you ever do it? How did Dad do it?” he whispers, his voice coming out half-strangled, before he hangs up, and a moment later a little girl, still dressed in the jumper and starchy blouse climbs down the stairs, holding the social worker’s hand. Dean pushes off from the wall, balancing on his crutches, and it’s then he notices the social worker is carrying a brown bag.

“What’s that?” The words are out of his mouth before he can censor them.

The social worker fixes him with a level gaze. “Everything she’s got left.”

Dean drops his gaze. “You… you wouldn’t have a backpack or at least a plastic bag with handles, would you? It’d be easier…”

* * *

The motel is a cut above his usual lodgings. In fact, he thought it was pretty damn clean, all beige carpeting and bedspreads, no mold or questionable grit in the bathroom tub or tiles, and there’s even an ugly-ass, generic seascape painting by Thomas Kincaid hanging above each of the two double beds. His daughter balks at the entrance.

* * *

They’re in the Biggerson’s barely two hundred feet from the chain motel entrance waiting for their order of waffles when everything goes to shit.

“So, where d’you want to go?” He asks her, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the diner table. “You’re a free woman. We can go anywhere you’d like. You don’t have to stay here anymore. I know I said California back there, but you can pick. We can go anywhere.”

She pauses and looks up at him, her eyes glimmering wetly. She drops her gaze and tears slip silently down her cheeks. She doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even hiccup or try to wipe the droplets away.

“Aw, hey,” Dean’s up and he’s swinging himself around the table, sliding onto the padded bench seat beside her before he’s even really aware of it. He’s grateful the restaurant isn’t busy and they’re in a corner booth where it’s more secluded. He doesn’t say a word as he reaches out and places his hand on her back. It’s enough and suddenly she’s out of the plastic booster seat and straddling his lap, burying her face into the shoulder of his flannel shirt, arms entwining around his neck. He hesitates for a split second, unsure what he’s supposed to do with his hands, and hugs her tightly, squeezing her to him. He’s still holding her when the waitress comes, bearing their plates, and he shakes his head at her, mouthing: “to go.” Fortunately the girl gets the memo and backs away.

It’s a long time before the toddler’s silent, shuddery sobs ease and his shirt is soaked through with tears and snot before she tugs away. He relaxes his grip but doesn’t let go, his hands draped loosely around her hips. He lifts the soft, threadbare tail of his shirt with one hand, the other still on her back, and wipes away the moisture from her cheeks. Her eyes are swollen and red and she looks exhausted. He moves the fabric to her nose, tells her to blow, and suddenly has a sense of déjà vu as he feels her honk loudly and ineffectually in his hand.

“What d’you say we bring the waffles back to the motel and watch some TV?” He pauses, not really expecting a reply. “My leg hurts from standing all morning and I don’t know about you but I’m pretty tired. Wanna come with me?”

She sniffles, wipes her eye with the back of her hand and nods, getting off his lap.

“Yeah? Okay, we’ll go.” He slides himself out of the booth and hauls himself upright with a grunt, grimacing as he reaches across the table for his crutches. Definitely painkiller time. “C’mon.” He wedges one of his crutches in his armpit and holds out his free hand and helps her down from the slightly-too-high seat. 

He stops by the counter on his way out and their waitress is there with a white plastic bag, its handles tied up in a neat knot. He reaches around and pulls out his wallet. He extracts a twenty and a five. “Keep the change,” he tells the girl before threading his hand through the loops of the bag and holding it against the handgrip of his crutch.

* * *

Without thinking, he undoes the belt, button, and zipper to his jeans and lets them drop. She stares horrified at his leg before bolting to the bathroom. He hears the door slam. Fuck, he curses silently to himself. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He quickly grabs his pooled up jeans and jerks them up his legs, over his hip, concealing the mangled mess that is his thigh. Considering it’s only been a couple of months since his accident, it looks pretty damn great. There’s a chunk of muscle missing, about the width of two fingers and going clear down to the bone, twisting from his hip to above his knee. The rest of his thigh is pitted and mutilated from the surgeries, the bruising still evident; scar tissue lurid and livid, all purple-red. It throbs slightly, reminding him that it can’t do what it used to, not yet at least.

He seizes his crutches, pushing the hard pads into his armpits as he swings himself to the bathroom door. He can feel his shoulders aching from the strain of supporting his weight all day. He really just wants to sack out, watch whatever’s on TV, and call it a night. He twists the doorknob with his hand and nudges the door open with his shoulder until it admits him.

The girl is crammed up in the tiny space between the tub and the toilet, huddled up as small and compact as she can get, still crying. She doesn’t make a sound, though, aside from the odd hitched, missed breath.

Dean moistens his lips, squeaking slightly across the cheap linoleum. He lowers himself onto the toilet seat with a low grunt.

She looks up.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, not wanting to startle her. “I’m really sorry about scaring you back there…” he tells her and he sees the moment her tiny shoulders slump and relax in relief as she takes in the fact he’s in jeans again. He decides then that they’ll need to make a run to one of those big stores that boast of low prices — Wal-Mart or Target — to get a pair of those soft pants Sam used to sleep in.

* * *

The Wal-Mart is too bright, too loud, and overwhelming. He feels the girl flinch up against him, intimidated and scared. “It’s okay,” he tells her. And his eyes fall on a motorized scooter several yards away. “D’you want a ride?” He flashes her his cocky, devil-may-care grin and she’s no different from the rest of her gender. She smiles back. It’s shy, but still.

They make their way to the scooter and he sits on the padded seat, stretching out his bad leg and tucking his crutches by his good bent one. He reaches out and lifts his daughter, settling her on his left thigh. It takes him less than a second to figure out the controls and they’re cruising down the aisles.

He takes them to menswear, homing in on the athletic gear. He finds a pair of light gray sweatpants that are his size and tosses them in the geriatric basket attached to the front. They’re not really his style but they’ll do. He glances at the girl sitting sedately on his lap, hands folded, eyes huge. He’d wear them for her. At least until the wreckage that’s his right thigh heals up some more.

* * *

He’s awoken out of sound sleep by an earsplitting scream. He’s instantly upright, hand hitting the light, knife hefted in the other, his movements honed by a lifetime of hunting. He sees the girl thrashing on the other bed, crying softly. He exhales shakily and feels sorry for the kid. He slides his knife back under his pillow, out of sight, and swings his legs from under the covers. It takes a moment but he manages to hop the short distance between the beds and sits on the edge of hers. He reaches out tentatively and shakes her. She blinks sleepily awake, her eyes gummed up by wet tears.

“Bad dream?” He asks quietly.

She opens her mouth, lets out a soft sob, and her tears start up again.

He reaches around her and lifts her into his lap. The t-shirt he’d bought her is too big and she looks so tiny and helpless and lost. She squirms for a second, disoriented, but then she must remember his scent because then she’s curled up into him, seeking comfort. He rubs her back as she snots all over his t-shirt and he mentally counts how many he’s got left in his duffel. At this rate, he’s looking at a Laundromat run in the next couple of days or so. 

“Y’know,” he says softly. “My mom died when I was real little too. I was exactly the same age as you…” he pauses, tilts down his chin, trying to peer into her face, but it’s buried too deeply in his shirt to catch her expression. He resumes rubbing his hand up and down the length of her spine. “I didn’t wanna talk either, not for a while. And it’s okay if you don’t wanna talk. I get it. You don’t have to.” He inhales, exhales. “You know… I still miss my mom. That kind of hurt doesn’t ever go away, but I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere.” He feels her shift, sigh, and settle. He waits a long time, after her breathing’s evened out, and then lays her back on the bed. She’s asleep. He tucks the sheet around her and, standing and leaning over, he snags his leather jacket from where he’d thrown it over one of the chairs. He spreads it over her and, after a second, kisses her on the forehead.

He shuts off the light and stretches out on his own bed but he doesn’t sleep, not for a long time.

* * *

He talks more, these days, to fill up the void between them, taking care to engage her and letting her make some choices. He discovers that although she’s mute, she’s far from uncommunicative.

There’s progress, too. She smiles more, tentative and shy, and she starts to seek him out when she’s tired. He figures it’s more because he’s a warm, steady body who hasn’t left her in over a week rather than anything in terms of trust.

* * *

“So, Alexis,” he says one morning and her eyes snap up huge and round and sad. She flinches. “Okay, you don’t like that. That’s cool,” Dean covers smoothly, pushing down his alarm and discomfort.

* * *

“Hey,” he whispers, seeing her face inches from his, trying to quiet his pounding heart. “Wassamatter?”

She doesn’t say anything, shifting on her feet, anxiety visible on her face. She peers behind her shoulder at the other double and then back at him.

He’s not sure what she wants but he can tell she’s nervous. Then he remembers the night she woke him screaming and he suddenly remembers the nights he’d woken up with Sammy beside him and how loved he’d felt.

“D’you wanna climb in?” He keeps his voice soft and even as he scoots back with a smile, simultaneously lifting the covers invitingly.

She doesn’t need further encouragement and clambers up onto the bed beside him. She doesn’t curl up against him and is careful not to touch him as he lets the blankets drop and brushes her upper arm with his hand, rubbing it.

It’s enough and she’s suddenly tucked against his side. He shifts, wrapping his arm around her, allowing her to use his shoulder as a pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	3. Fearful When the Sky was Full of Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Takes place a week or so before **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees**. 
> 
> My vision for this fic was to explore Dean's initial attempt at parenthood and have some floundering - replicating his hotel lifestyle without the abandonment and the beginning of the trust-building between Allie and Dean. There was also supposed to be a Wal-Mart run where Allie gets her Pink Floyd shirt.
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited.

The sky has darkened ominously by the time Dean hobbles off the bus, bracing himself with his crutches. He turns back and offers his tiny charge his hand. It seems huge as she places her own in his and grips his fingers tightly as she steps carefully down the too-high steps of the bus, feeling down with one foot before securing her footing and stepping down with her other. When his daughter’s reached the middle step, Dean leans forward and wraps his hands around her skinny torso, just beneath her armpits, and lifts her neatly to the ground. He casts a glance to the greenish-yellow cast of the gathering clouds and hopes they make it back to the motel in time. He chews at his lower lip and braces his weight on his crutches, trying not to let her see his apprehension.

Allie wordlessly presses up as close she can get to him without getting in the way of his crutches. She glances up, her eyes huge and round, fearful. It’s a look he’s seen way too much of in the past week. Dean smiles at her, hoping to dispel some of the too-old expression in her face, and she relaxes slightly but the tension doesn’t quite leave her shoulders. When they have to pass the 7-Eleven where the drunk homeless men congregate, she whimpers softly and grabs at his jeans.

The extra weight is unexpected and he nearly trips over her. He manages to catch and right himself, steadying his tentative balance. “Hey,” Dean whispers softly, leaning down. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna get hurt if you do…” He falters when he sees her eyes fill with tears. 

One of the men moves and she flinches up against his leg, her arm wrapping around his shin just beneath his knee as she buries her face into the rough blue denim. 

He hesitates, settles his hand on the top of her head. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, okay?”

She whines, tightens her grip. 

“Aw, baby girl,” Dean tells her and the endearment slips out easily, without him thinking about it. It feels natural, right. He wishes he could pick her up — carry her the way she clearly wants to be held. Instead he settles for “No one and no thing is going to get you, okay? Not as long as I’m around. D’you trust me?”

There’s a hesitation, a moment of uncertainty and desire warring across her features. He can tell she wants to trust him, wants to accept what he’s offering, but at the same time she just lost everything she’s ever known and trusted and loved.

“It’s okay,” Dean tells her before the pause stretches too long, not wanting her to feel like she has to answer. He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to talk. Watching your mom die is reason enough. He still remembers the tension and anxiety that made his throat close up for over a year and his father yelling when he couldn’t put voice to his words. Being pressured only made things worse and he isn’t going to put her through that. Besides, it’s not like she’s uncommunicative. He can work with hand gestures and facial expressions.

There’s a spatter of rain droplets and he spares a glance at the sky. The storm is almost on top of them and he really, really wants to be under some kind of shelter when the sky breaks open. “What d’you say we go back to the room? We can call the pizza guy and watch whatever you want on TV. Promise I won’t even complain if you wanna watch the talking purple dinosaur.”

She shyly unwinds her arm and gives him the space he needs although she remains underfoot and there are a couple of moments where Dean comes close to stumbling over her with the momentum of his crutch.

Soon they’re past the scary men and the low, dark stores of the half-abandoned strip mall and Dean lets out a breath of relief as they turn into the parking lot of the motel. He knows he should probably call Bobby and have the man wire him cash enough for an upgrade to get them out of the seedy, podunk section and into a better neighborhood, but every time he takes out his phone, pride forces him to hang up before he’s even hit the speed-dial button.

They’re both wet by the time they duck under the overhang and Allie presses close to his leg even though there’s no one around as he jiggles the lock, clearly intimidated.

He lets her enter the room before him. She runs in and scrambles up on the bed further from the door. He carefully maneuvers the narrow doorway and high threshold and when he’s inside, he shuts and deadbolts the door. He hobbles to the bedside table between the beds and turns on the light. Leaning down, he undoes the Velcro straps of her white-and-pink shoes. Easing them off her feet, he grins at her. She doesn’t return it, but she doesn’t shy away either the way she did sometimes at the beginning of the week.

He considers that major progress.

He returns to his own bed, giving her the space to needs. “So. You hungry? You want pizza?”

She puts her finger in her mouth and closes her mouth around it. He takes it as a yes.

He reaches over to the bedside table, pulls out the take-out pamphlet the girl at the front desk had given him — her phone number is scrawled along the top but he ignores it — and flips open his phone. “What d’you say to anchovies, baby girl? Want some little, oily fish on your pizza?”

Allie makes a face and he grins.

“No? Okay. Cheese and pepperoni then?”

She nods and the corner of her mouth quirks.

“Girl after my own heart,” he tells her.

* * *

When the pizza comes and he’s got the box opened up on Allie’s bed, he realizes the slices are too large for her small hands and she can’t lift them to her mouth the way he can. There are no knives and forks so he makes do with ripping her slice into more manageable pieces, burning his fingertips with the scalding tomato sauce. He cautions her to be careful and sucks his fingers when he’s finished. He picks up his own slice and watches her pick up her bites daintily. She obviously has manners, as he’s learned over the course of the past week, and likes her things neat. She puts the whole thing in her mouth and promptly makes a face. She doesn’t spit though and it’s clear she doesn’t know what to do as her face screws up.

“Aw, hey,” Dean says, setting down his slice and leaning over the box. “It’s okay. Spit it out.” He holds out his hand and she lets the bit of pizza, stringy and sticky with salvia, fall out of her mouth and into his palm. He deposits it into the corner of the box and wipes his hand with a napkin. He doesn’t miss the big chunk of pepperoni. He wordlessly spends the next solid minute picking them off her slice and eating them while giving her the pepperoni-free pieces and he’s rewarded with a real smile.

When the pizza is demolished, he clears away the boxes and goes to his own bed.

* * *

There’s a boom of thunder and a soft cry escapes Allie. The lights flicker warningly and steady.

“You scared?” Dean asks softly and there’s no answer. 

There’s a crack of lightning and the lights go out.

Simultaneously, there’s a scream.

* * *

He’s suddenly struck with an inspiration and grabs his cell phone from the bedside table.

“Hey,” he says, speaking louder than the storm. “Look what I got.” He flips open his phone and immediately the backlight floods their tiny circle. Allie grips him more tightly, nearly cutting off his air, but he senses her relaxing slightly. He presses a few buttons, calling up his ringtone list, silently thankful he has some songs downloaded onto it.

She unwinds one arm from his throat and reaches out, grasps the phone in her tiny hand, riveted by the glowing backlight. She doesn’t make another move, clearly not willing to relinquish her hold on him. Dean keeps one arm wrapped around her back, loosely tucking her against him, and presses a button with his free hand. Immediately the beat to Eye of a Tiger starts chiming.

She gasps softly and Dean lets out a soft laugh. When the dinging ends, her eyes immediately seek out his, large and disappointed. 

He presses the button again and immediately the song starts over. He mentally groans, sensing that it’s going to be a long night of listening to the same thing over and over. At least it’s my playlist, he thinks, consoling himself. This time, when it ends, Allie reaches out and presses the scroll button with her thumbs. Hotel California comes on and she snuggles against him, nearly crushing his left nut with her hand. He inhales tightly, his breath railroaded in with shock, and lets out his exhale slowly as he shifts her arm closer to her side, pinning it against his stomach. “Don’t move too much, okay?” He whispers into her ear.

She nods, lifts the cell phone, as though offering it to him and granting him the supreme privilege of playing with it.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile. “What would you like to listen to? We got a bunch of stuff here…”

He curls around her and a particularly loud rumble of thunder makes her cry out softly. He holds her close, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. He clicks through his phone and instantly Stairway to Heaven starts. He makes a face — it’s not one of his favorites — and he’s about to select another when he sees the look of wonderment on his daughter’s face.

Her mouth is parted open in a tiny O of surprise and her eyes are huge. He sees a tear brim at the edge of her eyelashes. She twists into him and clutches at his shirt. He holds her to him, feeling her hiccup slightly, and lets the song run its course. It’s way longer than he’d remembered. When it’s finished, Allie pulls away slightly and places her hand on the phone. Her face is teary.

“Again?” he guesses softly and smears the wet tracks from her cheeks with the tail of his shirt.

She nods and he pushes the OK button. 

This time, he unconsciously begins tapping out the beat on her back with his fingers and humming along with the dinging chime. Allie cranes her neck and looks up at him. Her hand snakes up and she pats gently at his throat. Dean startles. She repeats the patting motion and lowers her hand to grip the dangling brass charm. She tugs at it insistently.

“You want me to sing?” He asks her incredulously.

She nods, drops her gaze and touches the phone reverently with the middle finger of her free hand.

“You like that song?” He keeps his voice low, soothing, and is rewarded with another nod. He’s struck with an idea and winces. “Did your mom like that song?” He knows he’s treading on unstable ground, that he’s risking tears or worse.

Instead, she tugs at his amulet and sticks her other thumb into her mouth. Nods. A tear runs down her cheek but she doesn’t make a sound.

“You really miss your mom, don’t you?”

She gasps and it sounds like a sob.

“Yeah, I know, baby girl. I miss mine too,” he whispers. He reaches out, thumbs his phone, and starts Stairway to Heaven over again. He wishes he had the Impala and his box of cassettes. Or even a CD. Anything would be better than a cheap ringtone. He hums until, Ooh-ooh-ooh, ooh ooh ooh ooh-ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven…

* * *

Dean shifts under the weight of the small girl sleeping against his torso, her arms wrapped around him. He wraps one arm around her, bracing her as he leans and grabs his cell phone and a notepad from the bedside table. He flips open his phone and scrolls his contacts, cruising past BOBBY and hesitates over DAD. Allie lets out a sighing snuffling noise and there’s a slight squeak on the exhale as she shifts in her sleep. He lets out a surprised whoosh of air as her elbow digs into his solar plexus. She settles and he readjusts to her new position. He glances back at the glowing contact and hits the red END button. Not yet. He exhales and reopens his contact list, immediately going to the B’s and he scrolls down until he gets to BOBBY.

He presses the green SEND button.

The phone rings and rings and rings and he hears someone pick up.

“’Lo?”

“Hey, Bobby, it’s me,” Dean says, keeping his voice low. He takes a breath and before the older man can say anything, he presses on: “We’re leaving for Palo Alto by the end of the week. I need the phone number for the Greyhound….” A breath. “And could you play Stairway to Heaven? I can’t remember all the words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	4. Croup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Takes place a couple weeks after **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees**. 
> 
> My vision for this fic was for Allie to have a bad case of the Croup, but Dean is there to help her through it and make her feel better as are Sam and Jess.
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited.

It was bound to happen and Dean knew it, but it still didn’t make it any easier to watch. Losing the center of your universe, however small it was, watching someone die, having your entire world implode and being forced to move several hundred miles from everything you’ve ever known to an apartment of total strangers would be enough to drive the hardiest of adults to the brink. Let alone if you’re a four-year-old kid.

Frankly, Dean’s surprised she’d held out this long — just a little over three weeks — before crashing but he feels woefully underprepared to deal with a sick, crying kid.

He shifts his weight on his crutches, wincing at the hard dig of the pads in his armpits and swings himself a few long strides to Sam, who is gamely keeping up pacing duty. It’s been a couple of hours, now, and he knows Sam has an exam in the morning that he really should be studying for, but instead his brother is still holding a lethargic limpet of four-year-old girl.

“Shhh,” Sam shushes soothingly, rubbing one stupidly huge hand up and down Allie’s back as she takes a shaking, hitchy breath and settles her head against Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Dean says softly. “You hanging in there, baby girl?”

Allie rotates her head slowly, seeking him out and it’s then Dean knows she’s submitted to Sam out of exhaustion rather than trust. Her eyes are bloodshot, and swelled almost shut from tears and her face is puffy, scarlet and drenched, bangs plastered damply to her forehead. She takes a wheezy, shallow breath and fat droplets slip down her cheeks. Her body tenses, goes rigid, and she arches her back away from Sam as she coughs harshly. The raw, barking cough makes Dean’s throat ache in sympathy. The sound goes on and on and, finally, when the fit passes, Allie lets out a miserable whimper, not bothering to reign in her voice, scrubs her face with the back of one hand and sinks back onto Sam’s sturdy chest. She squirms slightly, stretches out her arm, hand reaching for him, the mute plea written all over her face and Dean feels something in the vicinity of his chest clench as she leans toward him. 

He catches her hand and swallows as he tucks it beneath the child-size fuzzy polyester blanket printed with pink hearts all over it that Jess’ mom sent over in a care package they’d received last week and settles it back against Sam. Moving his hand upwards, he strokes her sweaty, damp hair, cupping her face and feeling the hot fever-heat there.

Allie opens and shuts her mouth and tries to pull in air. It wheezes going in and Sam rubs along her ribcage. It doesn't help and she coughs again, this time louder and more harshly, and she begins to cry. The sobs hiccup and tangle in her throat, which makes her cough even harder. Sam braces her as she bows and Dean rubs her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	5. Corporal Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Takes place not long after **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees**. 
> 
> My vision for this fic was for Dean to have seen his daughter holding his hunting knife - probably that lovely curved one that Sam was holding in the S1 promos that never got used in Show - and spontaneously spanks her with an open palm across the butt while taking it away from her and angsting in the aftermath because he's Dean.
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited.

Dean’s alone when Sam finds him, sitting in the darkness on the back steps, hugging his knees and staring blankly at the gated entrance to the back alley. With a soft sigh, Sam settles on the tread besides him and holds out one of the two beers he’s brought with him. Dean shakes his head mutely.

“Can’t.” And his voice is thick and raspy like he’s been crying.

“Just take it,” Sam tells him. “It’s fine. You’re not planning on driving or operating heavy machinery, are you? And, ‘sides, Jess and I are here.”

Dean ducks his head, but he takes the bottle and pops off the cap with his ring. He brings it to his lips, taking a long swig of the El Sol, and exhales loudly as he lowers the bottle.

Sam sips his own slowly, waiting.

“I didn’t want to be like Dad…” Dean whispers.

“You aren’t,” Sam tells him. “What happened today… Fuck, Dean, anyone would’ve done the same. She had your _knife_. There’s so many ways that could’ve gone wrong.”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not about that. I never wanted to hurt her.” He releases a shaky breath. “She’s scared of me, now. I never wanted to make her scared – not in the way we…”

“Startled, sure. Shaken, maybe. But she still loves you.” Sam lets out a bark of a laugh. “God, Dean, she sets the sun and moon on you.”

Dean shrugs.

“No. Listen to me because I’m only going to say this once. We were raised like soldiers, Dean. Hell, you were the one who half-raised me. All my earliest memories are of you. You. Not Dad. After mom died we had no chance in hell of having a childhood. But her?” Sam gestures up the stairwell behind them with his beer bottle. “The reason that little girl is half as sane and adjusted as she is because of _you_, Dean. You were the one who saved her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	6. A Bustle in the Hedgerow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Takes place approximately three months after **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees** at Christmastime. It is Dean's first Christmas with Allie and she's still kind of sad and raw after losing her mother. 
> 
> My vision for this fic was for Dean and Sam to take Allie to Bobby's for Christmas and she accidentally colors in his book of runes because the black and white pictures looked like a coloring book and it turns out that Dean and Sam did the same way back when. And Bobby, of course, falls in love with her and becomes her honorary grandpa and is her favorite person because she imprinted on CARS and the tow truck was her favorite and BOBBY HAS A TOW TRUCK... Christmas goes well, but when Sam, Dean, and Allie go to Jess' family for a New Years' party, Allie has a meltdown and Dean feels out of place.
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited.

“Are you doing anything for Christmas? Because if not, you and Allie are more than welcome to come with me and Sam to my parents’ place as my guests,” Jess says the first week of December, without preamble.

Dean scoops another small spoonful of chili into his daughter’s bowl, watches her dig in with her spoon. She’s balanced precariously on the third-hand, previous-edition copy of Black’s Law Dictionary Sam’s picked up from somewhere and a phone book. They’ve been living here going on three months and they still haven’t gotten around to buying a proper booster seat. He sets the pan back on the potholder, exhaling. Some days, he feels absolutely unequipped to be a father. What kind of parent risks overdose by giving their toddler Valium and does their own stitches and uses piles of books as a booster seat and feeds her chili? One with his jacked up upbringing, apparently. At least there’s a car seat in Jess’ Corolla.

Allie blinks at him with mild expectation, her large green-hazel eyes a mirror reflection of his.

“Actually, I was about to buy a couple of Greyhound tickets to Sioux Falls.” Sam startles in surprise at his words and Dean presses on as though he hadn’t noticed. “There’s someone out there who helped me after my accident and I’d just rather spend Christmas with someone I call family… if that’s okay with you. Thanks anyways, though.”

“It’s more than fine.” Jess flashes him a bright grin and he feels marginally better. “I just wasn’t sure if you had anywhere to go. It’d be a shame for you two to spend your first Christmas stuck here.”

* * *

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says as his brother slips into the space that was formerly his living room, blinking at the transformation of the space. They’re still living out of duffel bags and backpacks and the bags are piled messily in a corner, with clean clothes stacked up neatly on one chair. But there are colored Christmas lights strung along the top of one wall and a fort made out of couch cushions between the sofa and the wall.

Sam sits on the edge of the pullout bed. “How’s the leg?” He asks.

Dean props himself up on his elbows, drags himself up, careful not to jolt the sleeping child beside him. She lets out a sound of mild protest and fists the loose fabric Dean’s sweatpants. He reaches down, strokes her hair, and she stills again. 

“It’s pretty good. My hip kills but it’s good… considering.”

“Considering what?” the words slip out of Sam’s mouth and judging by the look on his face, he hadn’t meant it to.

“Considering everything. Considering I should be dead.” Dean says bluntly. “Remember I told you I was thrown out of the third floor of a church?”

Sam nods.

“I wasn’t supposed to walk away, Sam. Hell, it should’ve killed me — that whole life-flashing-before-your-eyes thing you hear about? I was there. Instead, I’ve got a wrecked up leg and a kid. And I’m not knocking that.”

“So… hunting? You don’t miss it?”

Dean frowns in thought. “No. Not really,” he says after a moment. “Not as much as I’d thought I would. Hated the whole gimpy, not-hunting thing more in the beginning… before her.” He runs a thumb along Allie’s hairline and she sighs, snuggles in her sleep. “But since… No. Not anymore. I’d trade it in all over again for her. She’s more than worth it, Sam. The things I’d do for her… it scares me sometimes.”

Sam exhales, rubs the palm of one hand with his other thumb. “Dean… I was thinking…” He swallows. “I talked it over with Jess and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to spend Christmas at Bobby’s with you and Allie. We’ll have to be back by New Year’s Eve because it’s a big thing at her parents’, but, yeah. You can make that three tickets to Sioux Falls.”

* * *

“Oh, hey,” Dean leaps forward, snatches the crayon from his daughter’s hand and rescues the book. “That’s Uncle Bobby’s.”

* * *

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, ‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.’” Dean closes the book and kisses his sleeping daughter on the temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	7. Father's Day

“Father’s Day is this coming Sunday,” Jess says one Wednesday in June as Sam enters the kitchen, bringing a sunny yellow envelope to her mouth. She licks the flap and presses it down flat before flipping the rectangle over and scrawling DAD in neat, rounded script with a black sharpie. After a pause, she underlines it. “You ought to do something.”

Sam lets out a wry laugh. “Father’s Day isn’t a big deal in our family. Hell, Dad was barely around and Dean—”

Jess raises an eyebrow and pointedly tilts her head towards the living room.

“Oh.”

Jess smiles and stands. She kisses him, her hand sliding into his hair, cupping the back of his head. “Yes. Oh,” she says and kisses him on the lips again. When she pulls away, Sam notices the toddler kneeling on the kitchen chair, bent double over the table, tongue poking out between her lips as she colors. Allie pauses, sets down the bright yellow crayon and, after a moment of intense concentration, selects a green crayon.

“Hey, Boo,” Sam says, circling the table until he’s beside her. He bends low and sees a crude drawing of two figures standing on some grass, their bodies too round and bloated, belly buttons clearly defined, with thin sticks for arms and legs. There’s a yellow circle overlapping the larger figure’s head. “Wha’cha doing?”

Allie startles, glancing up at him too quickly, hand going over her drawing. She glances nervously at Jess.

Sam crouches lower. “It’s okay. D’you wanna whisper it in my ear? You don’t have to talk.”

Allie’s lower lip wobbles. Then, so softly Sam has to strain to hear, “’S for daddy.” Her eyes are huge.

Sam grins. “You mean it’s a present?” he whispers softly.

Allie nods mutely, turns it towards him, seeking approval.

“He’s going to love it. Do you want help writing anything?”

Allie silently reaches out, picks up a red crayon, and hands it to him. “Daddy,” she whispers, pointing to the larger figure. She waits until Sam’s finished writing before pointing to the smaller, chubbier figure. “Me.” 

Sam follows her instructions, printing clearly in his neatest handwriting. She surveys it for a second and it must meet approval because she picks it up and folds it in half. It comes out crooked and she frowns, her lower lip wobbling. For a minute it looks as though she’s about to cry.

“Oh, hey,” Sam says softly, intervening before the tears can begin. “It’s okay. Look, we’ll make it perfect.” He takes the handmade card and slowly, carefully, straightens out the edges, making sure the corners meet and presses down, making a new, crisper seam. “Better?”

Allie nods and hands the folded card to Jess, who places it under her sharpie-labeled envelope. “I’ll hide it and you can give it to daddy in a couple of days, okay?” Jess flashes the girl a bright smile, which she returns. “Go get your shoes. Uncle Sammy is going to take you shopping and you can pick out a present to give to Daddy.”

Allie’s brow furrows.

“Daddy’s going to be right here when you get back. I’ll keep an eye on him, okay?”

Allie nods, grins brightly, and slides off the kitchen chair.

“Shopping? What the hell am I supposed to get?”

Jess raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s not about you,” she hisses quietly. “It’s about Dean and helping Allie give her dad something for Father’s Day.” Her voice gentles and she places both palms on Sam’s pectorals. Her eyes are compassionate. “I know you and your father don’t have the best relationship but…”

Sam smiles and shakes his head, huffing softly.

Jess presses her lips together. “Understatement of the millennium, huh?” She takes a breath. “I never met your father, Sam, so I can’t judge, but Dean isn’t your father and he is trying. That’s what’s Father’s Day’s about, Sam.”

Sam presses his lips to Jess’ forehead, kissing the mole between her eyebrows. “All right. You’ve convinced me.” He finds himself smiling at her spontaneous grin. “Where’s Dean anyways?”

Jess’ smile slips fractionally. “He’s sleeping. Allie’s been having bad nightmares lately so I told him to catch up and I’d watch her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	8. Two Paths You Can Go By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Takes place approximately nine months after **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees**. 
> 
> My vision for this fic was for Dean, Sam, and Jess to take Allie to Disneyland in California where they give her a very happy birthday and she picks out a Tow Mater plushie because she imprinted on CARS and the tow truck was her favorite...
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited.

“Hey, Dean,” Jess says, entering the kitchen, an over-full laundry basket balanced against her hip. She walks to the kitchen table and dumps the basket’s contents on it. Dean reflexively catches a pair of pink thong underwear as it tumbles off the surface before it hits the floor. He pushes it back into the pile without even raising an eyebrow or smirking. Jess’ grin fades. “What’s eating you?”

Dean shrugs, staring at the mound of laundry. “Nothing,” he mumbles.

Jess doesn’t call him on it as she picks up a pair of blue-and-white pinstriped boxes. “Yours or Sam’s?”

“Mine.” Dean barely glances up.

They lapse into an easy silence as Jess folds the laundry, sorting them into three adult-sized piles. She’s starting in on Allie’s miniature versions when Dean reaches out and begins helping her.

“Her birthday’s in about a week,” he says finally, setting a half-wadded pink t-shirt on top of a neatly folded pair of blue jeans with a frayed rip in the knee. “July seventeenth.”

Jess nods, her face unreadable as she studies him. “You’ve got any plans?”

Dean shrugs again. “I’ve got nothing.” He licks his lips, decides to tell Jess. “It’s going to be her first birthday without her mom. And I sort of want to make it special.”

A long moment passes. “I’m pretty sure I can get us into Disneyland for a decent price — between my dad’s Triple-A and being a lifelong California resident. I’ll have to look into it but I’m thinking I might be able to get tickets at a reasonable price. It’ll still be expensive, but it won’t be as outrageous…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	9. With a Word She Can Get What She Came For

“Dean?” Jess says one night after dinner as she fills the kitchen sink with sudsy water. “After you put Allie down for the night, can you come back in here? We need to talk.”

Dean feels his throat tighten. “Yeah. Sure.”

* * *

He’s distracted during bathtime and Allie calls him out on it.

Her hands go up to her hair, tugging out of his grip. She twists to scowl darkly at him. You’re doing it all wrong written all over her indignant expression. And he bites the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. Do it right. She turns her back to him. 

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes automatically, grinning at the back of her head as he unravels the sloppy, loose braid. He weaves her hair more tightly. “Better?”

Allie nods and twirls around, wraps her arms around his throat and squeezes in gratitude. She tugs away and holds her hands in the shape of a book. Read?

“Yeah. I’ll read,” Dean rises to his feet and follows her into the living room. 

He lifts the tangled sheets and quilts and pats the flat, uncomfortable mattress. She scrambles up and settles as he smoothes the covers over her and sits on the edge of the bed. He bends over, snags his black backpack, drags it to his feet, and, unzipping it, pulls out the three picture books they’d picked up from the library that day. “Which one you’d like?” He holds them out.

Allie taps the dark blue cover with a bat perched on a tree branch.

“Stellaluna,” Dean begins, stretching out on his left side, pressing up against her, feeling her fresh-out-of-the-bath baby warmth and the smell of Johnson’s shampoo. He opens the book to page four and holds it between them so she can see the pictures. He’s pre-read it earlier at the library while Allie looked for more books and he deliberately skips the first two pages where the baby bat is separated from her mother, picking up when Stellaluna tumbles into the bird’s nest, silently thankful he had the foresight to check and avoid a meltdown. It’s the same reason they don’t watch Bambi or the opening sequence of Finding Nemo.

As he feels his daughter curl against him, her hand tugging at his amulet as she relaxes to the rumble of his voice, he wonders what possesses Disney movies and children-book authors to think axing off a mother is a child-friendly concept.

He feels her grip pull harder on the cord, dragging his neck down. He peers at her face and sees her eyes are heavy and he shifts, sliding lower on the bed until his head’s on the pillow. She shuffles, rests hers on his shoulder. He finishes the book and shuts the cover. He feels her snuggle closer, sigh sleepily. Dean reaches out one hand and shuts off the light so the only illumination in the dim room is the string of multicolored Christmas lights stapled across the top of one wall that doubles as a nightlight. 

He lies still, keeping his breath slow and even, arm wrapped around his daughter, hoping she drifts off soon, mulling over Jess’ words, thinking of his meager savings and wondering if he has enough for them to make a go of it. He contemplates the assisted, subsidized housing and wonders how they’d work out. He adds phone calls to social security to his to-do for the next day.

There is a tug at his throat and he knows Allie is playing with his amulet again. She pats at his chest, insistent. Sing?

Dean doesn’t answer her but instead begins rubbing her shoulder. 

_There's a lady who's sure_  
_All that glitters is gold_  
_An’ she’s buyin’ a stairway to heaven…_

He’s more than halfway done the song, reaching the bits about It's just a spring clean for the May-Queen when he finally feels her hand slip from his neck and hears the slight whistle that signals she’s fast asleep.

Impossibly slow, with a stealth born of a lifetime of hunting, he slides from underneath her grip, stroking her arm and smoothing down the mismatched blankets while pressing his lips to her temple. He skips ahead to her favorite part: 

_There walks a lady we all know_  
_Who shines white light and wants to show_  
_How ev'rything still turns to gold…_

* * *

Dean pads in socked feet into the kitchen. Jess is sitting at the table, a thick textbook in front of her, open to a page that has a picture of something that looks like shrimp, typing on her battered duct-taped Dell laptop. She looks up as he steps on a creaky floorboard. “She asleep?”

“For now. She should be good for a couple of hours. Hopefully she won’t have nightmares. Sorry about the past three nights.” He lets out a long exhale as he drops into the chair across from her and smears a palm down the length of his face, eyes suddenly burning with exhaustion.

“It’s all right. It’s not your fault. We still get more sleep than you do.” Jess falls silent. The pause stretches uncomfortably for several seconds.

“Jess...” Dean begins. He takes a deep breath. “You shouldn’t have to put up with us. You didn’t sign up for this. If you give me a couple of weeks, I’ll get us out of your hair.”

Jess’ eyes widen slightly as though he’d slapped her. “Dean...” the word comes out breathy and half-strangled. “You can’t have thought...” she pauses. “My God... you did.” The words tumble out faster and more desperate. “I didn’t mean that. It’s not like that at all. I’m so sorry if I...” there’s another pause. Then, in one long blurt, “Sam-n-I-were-thinking-of-buying-a-house-and-I-wanted-to-know-if-you-wanted-to-join-us.”

Dean blinks at her. “Come again?”

Jess takes a deep breath. “Our lease is going to be up in a couple of months with a chance of renewal, but we were thinking of possibly buying a house. Definitely getting something a little bigger than this, at any rate. My uncle is a real estate agent and he can get us a deal and I was wondering — well, hoping, actually — you and Allie would want to join us. We’d have to split the mortgage three ways and it’d be for the long haul but the offer is yours if you want it.”

“You’re not asking us to leave?”

Jess shakes her head, smiles at him. “No. I think it’s been working out well for the three of us and the fact you help with food is kind of huge. And, well, I’d like you and Allie to stay. Only if you want to, of course.” She blushes slightly.

“What about Sam? Is he okay with this too?”

Jess ducks her head shyly, not meeting his gaze. “It was his idea. He just thought I should be the one to ask.” She glances down at her homework, picks up a pen and doodles a spiral. After a long pause and nearly a quarter page of spirals, she takes a breath. “D’you know what they’re about? Her nightmares, I mean.”

Dean shrugs, turning down the corners of his mouth in a facial shrug. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

He blows out another breath, tracing a pentagram into the remanents of the Windex. “She won’t talk about them, but I think they’re about the night her mom died.”

“Sam said she died in a bar brawl.” Jess’ voice is relucant.

Dean shakes his head, not raising his eyes. “She was stabbed in a brawl,” he corrects. He hesitates and elaborates, “she was a bartender and apparently she tried to break it up and took a knife to the gut. Worst part? She didn’t die right away. It took a good day and a half and she was on a respirator and everything.” He looks up at Jess, meets her gaze. “Allie was at the hospital the whole time with her. She watched her mom die.” His voice cracks unexpectedly.

“That’s awful,” Jess breathes. “No wonder she dreams.”

“Probably didn’t help that CPS kept her at the hospital until I got there. I don’t know if they kept her there the whole time or what, but she was at the hospital when I met her and that had to be a good three or four days later.”

“That’s why you stitched her knee yourself, back in October, I mean...”

Dean nods, swipes his palm through his doodle, drying up the Windex. “Yeah. She doesn’t do hospitals.” Neither do I, he doesn’t add, remembering the month he’d spent laid up in Sioux Falls General.

Jess doesn’t say anything and he feels her eyes searching, picking him apart.

She must like what she sees because—

“You’re a good father,” she finally says.

“It’s my job. She’s my responsibility.”

“No.” Jess shakes her head and her eyes are sad. “It’s more than that. You want to do it. You love her.”

* * *

The next month is filled with real estate fliers and pamphlets and brochures. They come out at night, after Allie goes to sleep, and cover the kitchen tabletop. Dean groans silently, burying his head in his hands, fingers digging into short hair. He glances up at Sam. “How the hell do you do this?” He tosses a leaflet bearing a ridiculously overpriced house. They don’t exactly have a half-million lying around.

Sam blinks at him in confusion. “Do what?”

“This.” Dean gestures around them. “The rent, the food, the bills… I never realized how frigging expensive everything is. There’s something to be said about living outta a car and hustling pool, I gotta tell ya.”

Sam lets out a hollow laugh. “Why do you think this place is halfway in skeevyville?” He pauses. “It’s a lot of the reason Jess and I live together. We split on pretty much everything, even food. It’s also why we both have part-time jobs outside of our work-studies.” He huffs out a breath. “But there’s a lot less month now that you’ve got everything squared away with Social Security.” Sam pauses. “Thanks,” he adds, sounding slightly embarrassed. “You know, for that.”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not much. And it wasn’t for you. Not really. You didn’t sign up for this. And I know you weren’t a fan of me crashing here in the beginning.”

“I know,” Sam smiles, his cheek dimpling. “But I also know you, Dean, and what it took for you to claim.”

“The things I’d do for her…” Dean mumbles, doesn’t finish.

* * *

They eventually find a place in Half Moon Bay. It isn’t too overpriced and the real estate agent offers them a steep discount because of the electrical problems and rat infestation.

* * *

When Allie is sitting raptly at storytime, watching the librarian — a stereotypically matronly-looking woman with silver hair and a denim dress, but who clearly genuinely loves children and her job — lead them through the hand-motions for The Itsy Bitsy Spider, Dean slips out the Children’s Room, across the lobby, and into the Reference Room.

“I’m looking for some local history,” he tells the college-aged kid in dreadlocks sitting behind the desk and bearing the nametag Darren.

* * *

He glances up from the thin book on local history when he hears a set of footsteps walking towards him. He grins when he sees his daughter. “Hey there, baby girl,” he says. “What’ve you got there?” he adds as she pushes five picture books onto the edge of the table. He reaches out and takes them, glancing at the brightly-colored covers as she climbs up onto the chair beside him, her hand reaching out to grab at the lip of the table for leverage. He automatically steadies the wobbling surface. When she’s properly seated, he drags her chair closer to him and hands her the books.

“Think you can sit and read for a bit?” he asks. He doesn’t warn her to be quiet or to keep her voice down. It’s been six months and she still hasn’t spoken a single word.

She smiles and nods, her hands going up to push her bangs back.

He hands her the stack of books and watches her look at all the covers before selecting the one that has a picture of a dog on it. She opens it flat on the table, covering his pile of papers.

He eases them out and smiles at her before returning to the old, yellowed register. They really need to the library in Half Moon Bay but for now this is good enough.

He’s been reading the list of names for a while when a tiny hand covers the minuscule print. He looks up and meets his daughter’s curious gaze.

She pats the registry again, this time more insistently.

“What’m I reading?” Dean guesses in a low voice. He’s rewarded with a nod. He turns his body towards her and tilts up the book so she can see it better. “D’you remember the house we looked on? The little one with the porch and pointy roof that was near that beach?”

There’s a pause and she tilts her head thoughtfully. After a moment she nods, shy and uncertain.

“Well there’s lots of problems but daddy doesn’t believe what they’re telling him so he’s figuring it out himself.” He stops before he tells her too much. She doesn’t need to know what’s in the dark. Not yet, at least. No four-year-old kid should.

There’s a trusting bob of her head and Allie’s mouth opens into a silent o. She frowns at the old book before returning to her own.

* * *

“So, baby girl,” Dean says with a grin. “What d’you think?”

Allie tilts her head up at him, her eyes huge and fearful.

“Hey,” Dean drops his voice to a lower, softer, register. “Remember what I told you? We’re all moving here together — you, me, Uncle Sammy, Auntie Jess…. All four of us. We’re gonna be a family and no one is going to be left behind, okay?”

Allie sniffles, wipes her nose with the cuff of her purple hoodie. She reaches up with one small hand and Dean takes it, wrapping his palm securely around hers, swallowing up her fingers in his grip. He shortens his stride, matching his pace to her sudden timidity. The house is small, not even clearing one and a half hundred square feet, but it’s big enough for them and he thinks he’d like to settle down here. He’s already scoped out the schools and they seem halfway decent and there’s the sea and fog and it’s quiet enough he doesn’t think people would ask too many questions about a single father living with his brother and said brother’s girlfriend.

The floor plan is spacious, open, with no real doors except for the bedrooms and bathrooms and it takes a few minutes to point out the kitchen, dining area, and living room.

“D’you want to see your bedroom?” he asks his daughter and Allie cocks her head comfusedly.

Dean feels something drop into his stomach. Trying not to wince, he squats, lowering himself to her height, bad leg stretched out to the side.

“Didn’t you have your own bedroom back in Arizona?” he takes a deep breath, braces himself for the meltdown. “When you lived with your mom?”

There’s a hitch and then a tiny nod.

“This is going to be the same thing, okay?”

* * *

Allie’s lower lip trembles again and she bites down on it to keep from wobbling. He can tell from the careful way she’s holding herself that she’s trying not to cry or completely break down.

“Hey,” he tells her. “It’s okay. I get it.” He reaches out and tugs her in, hugging her tightly. Her arms go up and wrap around his neck, squeezing. “This is going to be the same thing — you’re gonna have your own room with a big girl bed and I’m going to be right there. All you gotta do is make some noise and I’ll be there, okay?”

She shifts her arms, tugs him down, and his leg twinges at the pull. He shifts his weight so his bad leg isn’t bearing as much weight and rubs up and down her back a few times. She hiccups, relaxes, and he waits. She doesn’t let go.

“D’you want Uncle Sammy to carry you?” He asks quietly. There’s a hesitation, a tightening, and he swallows.

“I know you want me, baby girl, but you I can’t. You don’t want Daddy to hurt his leg again d’you?”

There’s a headshake.

* * *

He reaches out, his hand brushing against her upper arm. Allie jerks back, her lower lip quivering, tears brimming. She stiffens, dashes her hands across her face, pushing her bangs back, visibly trying to be brave.

He doesn’t tug her in for a hug, sensing that she needs her space, instead brushing her baby-soft cheek with the back of his fingers, catching tears. She trembles, her face on the verge of crumpling but she doesn’t break down.

His leg is twinging, his position pulling at the wasted muscle.

She lets out a breath that hitches on its way back in. She shudders again and Dean rubs her upper arm in understanding.

“Oh, hey,” Sam says, stepping into the room. “I was wondering where—” he trails off when he sees Allie twist toward him. He goes to her and crouches. He still towers over her. “What’s the matter? You okay?”

In answer, Allie flings herself at him and Sam lets out a surprised whoosh of air at the impact. A moment later, when he figures it out, he settles his arms around her skinny torso and returns her squeeze. He keeps his grip secure as he stands, bringing her up with him. Her legs wrap around his waist and her arms tighten around his neck when she realizes how high off the ground she is. Sam keeps a hand at her back as he adjusts his other arm beneath her butt.

Allie’s breath hitches again, but it isn’t quite a cry, and she buries her face into the junction of Sam’s neck and shoulder.

Dean slowly rises to his feet and Sam meets his brother’s gaze as he feels his t-shirt collar dampen. “What happened?” Sam asks softly, his hand still rubbing the toddler’s back soothingly.

“I think she thought you were l-e-a-v-i-n-g.”

Sam’s expression goes sad as he turns to the kid in his arms. “Aw, hey,” he says softly. “I’m not going anywhere. ‘Sides, who else is going to be my second-best girl, huh?” Allie shifts, pulls herself higher on Sam’s shoulder and Sam obliges. “You show her your rooms yet?” He asks Dean.

Dean shakes his head. “Was going to but then…”

Sam wordlessly tilts his head and kisses Allie on the side of her temple. “You wanna see the rest of the house, Bean?” The question is rhetorical as he walks up the stairs. The second level is smaller than the first, consisting of two bedrooms and a bath. Dean follows close hehind as Sam turns right into a small room with steeply pitched ceilings.

“Allie,” Dean says softly. “Look.”

Allie lifts her tear-stained face from Sam’s hoodie and pushes back her bangs, wide, reddened eyes latching onto her father’s. Her hair falls back into her face and Dean smoothes her bangs back, tucking the ends behind her ears. “This is your bedroom.”

* * *

“Did you find anything at the library?” Sam asks late that night, setting aside his thick Riverside Shakespeare textbook, after Jess’d excused herself and pressed a kiss to his forehead before heading off to bed. 

Dean casts a glance at the closed doors — both Sam’s and his own — and exhales when no sound comes from either room. “Not too much and from the system it looks like Half Moon Bay doesn’t have much. Not here, at least. We’re looking at a trip. I did find this though.” Dean opens up a torn, falling-apart, sixty-nine-cent paper folder that has JESSICA MOORE scrawled in sharpie marker on the upper right-hand corner and pulls out a photocopy. “It took almost a week but I eventually traced the house back to this guy…”

Sam takes the sheet from his brother and scans it. “Huh. Says he killed his wife then himself.” A pause. “So which is it? Him or her?”

Dean frowns deeply, shrugs. “No idea. But it’s not like it matters, does it? We know what we’re dealing with.” He flashes his patented shit-eating grin. “Think you remember how to ride a bike, Sammy? ‘Cause we got us a salt ‘n’ burn…”

* * *

“I don’t know guys...” Jess sips from her water, her eyes worried. “I mean we can afford it but it needs a lot of work and between the electrical problem and rat infestation...” she trails off as she catches a glance pass between the brothers. “What?”

Sam looks up at Dean, who raises an eyebrow.

“Sam…”

“Jess,” Sam says simultaneously, his voice low and gentle, as though he’s about to break bad news. He takes a breath when she pauses, clearly allowing him to continue. “There’s nothing wrong with the electricity and there are no rats. At least Dean and I don’t think so... and we’re really pretty sure.”

“But...”

“I know what the agent said, Jess,” Dean cuts in. He gentles his voice. “But he’s wrong. And Sam’n’me are what you might call... experts... at this kind of thing.”

“I don’t...”

Sam takes another breath. “We think it’s a ghost...”

“... and we know how to kill it,” Dean finishes.

* * *

Dean leans over his sleeping daughter and kisses her on the cheek. She stirs, blinks blearily at him, dazed with sleep.

“Hey there,” He says softly. “Daddy has to go do something at the house with Uncle Sammy. I’ll be back before you wake up, okay? Be good for Auntie Jess.”

A sleepy nod and then she’s back under.

He pads out to the kitchen where Sam and Jess are waiting by the door, Sam geared up in a hoodie and jeans and it reminds him of then, before he took off to be normal, and Jess in stretchy boy shorts underwear and her Smurfs t-shirt. “She’s asleep. Thanks for watching her, Jess. I appreciate it,” he mumbles gruffly.

“It’s fine.” Jess smiles tightly, worry evident in her eyes. She swallows as she sees Sam heft the leather satchel to his shoulder. “I’m happy to do it.”

“We’ll be back,” Sam reassures her. “Don’t worry. We’ve done this before.” He leans over and kisses her on the side of her head. 

Dean twists the doorknob and pulls in the door. He steps through it, waits for Sam to pass him and trails his brother down the stairs, knowing that Jess is standing in the open doorway.

“Be careful,” she calls out anxiously before they slip outside.

* * *

Sam goes to the driver’s side the Corolla when Dean’s voice stops him.

“No, Sam,” Dean says. “We gotta take the Impala. Baby misses hunting.”

Sam shakes his head, trying not to smile but neither does he put up an argument as he follows Dean. He’s surprised when he sees a set of keys arc towards him. He reflexively catches them. He glances up, confused, but Dean’s already got the passenger side’s door open.

“You coming or what? Night’s wasting and we need to be back here before seven.”

Sam scrambles up to the driver’s side. “You mean you want me to drive?”

“Half Moon Bay’s about a half an hour from here and, well, you know…” Dean pauses, licks his lips, catching Sam’s still-bewildered expression. “I can’t,” he snaps out, his voice hard and brittle and frustrated. “Driving fucks up with my leg and I need to be sharp. We going or what?”

“Yeah, we’re going,” Sam says quietly, opening the heavy metal door and sliding in.

They’re quiet most of the thirty-five minute ride and they know they’ve hit Half Moon Bay when they drive into a fog bank.

Sam eases the beast of a car up the road, turning into a driveway, and cruising past the house to a garage tucked unobtrusively behind the bungalow. “It’s so weird—” Sam shifts the gears into park. “Us having a place.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean exhales sharply. He doesn’t finish his statement.

“What d’you say we get rid of ourselves some ghosts?”

* * *

“Oh, fuck.” Dean’s voice is a borderline whimper. He curls up in his best armadillo impression, hand going to his hip. “Sonovabitch,” he curses again, low and mumbling, the expletive running together into one word.

“Dean?” Sam asks softly, crouching beside his brother, hand hovering but not touching him.

“Oh, motherfuck—” Dean trails off, eyes screwed up tightly and his breath short and shallow, reigned in.

“Dean?” Sam tries again, knowing the curse isn’t directed at him, feeling helpless as his brother tenses, his body quivering slightly. “C’mon, dude,” he ventures. “You’re scaring me here. I gotta know where it gotcha…”

There’s a pause and Dean relaxes slightly, uncoiling. “Help me up, man.”

“What?”

Dean pushes himself more upright, wincing, and grabs Sam’s forearms, his nails digging into Sam’s flesh. “Get me up,” he repeats, already trying to drag himself up.

Sam ignores the bruising grip. “Dude… you were doing a hedgehog impression there. I’m not gonna—”

“Please,” Dean lets out, deflating slightly. “I gotta stand. I gotta know.” A hesitation. “Please, Sam.”

Sam feels his breath catch. There’s a desperate urgency in Dean’s eyes as they lock on his, searching. “Okay,” Sam exhales. “Okay.” He can’t quite believe the words are coming from his mouth. “But you gotta promise me—if it’s your leg, we’re gonna go to the hospital and get you checked out.”

Dean slumps, grimacing.

“It is your leg. Fuck, Dean.”

Dean’s grip tightens and he’s trying to leverage himself upright again. He suddenly releases one of Sam’s arms and reaches up to grip at the countertop with his hand.

“Whoa, whoa.” Sam reaches out to steady Dean as he pulls himself up and gets his good leg under him. He searches Dean’s face and sees something more than stubbornness; there is desperation and fear. “Okay. Let me help.”

Dean exhales, nods curtly, and catches hold of Sam’s biceps as Sam carefully, slowly, drags him upright. Sam freezes when he hears Dean grunt.

“Keep going,” Dean grits out and, a moment later, gets his feet under him. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Sam as he gingerly puts weight on his bad leg, tiny winces and grimaces playing across his face as he shifts. It doesn’t buckle, but Sam can feel Dean’s nails digging into his forearms and he can see it is taking incredible strain for Dean to stay upright. Dean trembles rigidly and a droplet of sweat runs from his temple to his chin.

“Okay,” Sam says. “That’s enough. Let’s get you down…” And it is a sign of how truly serious things are when Dean nods, allows Sam to adjust his grip on his brother’s hips and lower him against the cupboards again. Once settled, Dean leans back against the cabinets, shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw and swallows convulsively.

“Fuck,” he manages.

“ER time,” Sam tells him and works the cell phone from his jeans pocket.

* * *

“I had to know,” Dean says quietly, almost apologetically.

Sam doesn’t say anything, listening for sirens. 

“Last time…” Dean takes a breath. “Last time, I knew I wasn’t gonna get up. I wasn’t gonna make it.” He raises his eyes. “I had to be sure…” Dean doesn’t finish and Sam can guess at the rest of his sentence.

“It’s okay,” he tells his brother. “Don’t sweat it.”

* * *

“Hell, no, Sam,” Dean explodes, “I’m not fucking staying here. You gotta get me out. I can’t stay here.”

“Dean...” Sam exhales, sinking into the plasticky vinyl chair and burying his head into his hands, digging fingers through his hair. He looks up. “I know you hate hospitals, but it’s your hip, man. And in case you haven’t noticed, it’s the same leg you busted almost a year ago... You know, the one that makes you limp and occasionally makes you squeal like a girl,” Sam bitchfaces at him, but Dean can see the worry in his brother’s eyes and that it’s taking effort for him to keep up the banter. Sam softens slightly, “Just one night? To make sure it’s okay?”

Dean glares at him stonily, jaw clenched and a muscle ticcing somewhere near his ear.

There’s a tense stare-down that stretches a long moment, neither of them willing to give quarter when Sam goes in for the kill. 

“What about Allie, Dean? What if something is seriously wrong and, God forbid, something happens and Jess and I are not around?”

Dean deflates, exhaling, and surrenders, knowing Sam’s won. “Okay,” Dean says dejectedly, “I’ll stay. But you swear it’s just tonight, right?” There’s a desperate, edgy quality to his voice he doesn’t like and he shuts his mouth, tamping it down.

“Yeah. I’ll break your ass out AMA if I have to,” Sam vows, flashing shy dimples despite himself. “Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve got classes until one, but at two you’re a free man. That’s only a little less than twelve hours. It’ll be okay.” Sam rises to his feet, yawns. “Get some rest. Enjoy the good drugs while you have them.” He pats Dean’s good knee and turns to go.

Sam’s almost at the door when Dean calls out for him, making him stop and pivot. “She likes Fruity Pebbles and orange juice for breakfast and make sure she drinks all the milk at the end.” Dean feels himself color slightly and the next words come out in a rush. “And don’t tell her I’m here, okay. Just tell her Daddy’s doing things at the house.” He picks at a loose thread in the blanket and doesn’t look up.

“I got it,” Sam assures him. “I live with her too, you know. And let me guess, she only likes the Dora the Explorer bowl and prefers the green spoon.” He pauses for a second. “And the purple sippy cup, not the pink.” Dean nods but doesn’t meet his brother’s gaze. “It’ll be all right,” Sam continues, his voice almost irritatingly gentle as though Dean’s a scared, hurt animal. “This time tomorrow, you’ll be home with her.”

* * *

Sam wheels Dean out into the sunshine. The day is a little cool but otherwise it’s nice and Dean thinks that if he’d been home, he would’ve taken Allie to the park. Or at least spent part of it outside. He’s got a baggie of painkillers — the significantly less awesome but still serviceable kind — Sam’s filled and picked up for him from the pharmacy across the street from the hospital.

They’re halfway across the parking lot when he hears a familiar wail.

“Shit, Sam,” he grinds out. “I told you she doesn’t do hospitals and not to tell her. What the fuck possessed you to bring her here?”

“She wanted to come,” Sam says softly, clearly rattled as he walks faster.

They reach Jess’ Corolla and Jess is there, leaning against the trunk, Allie in her arms, doing her best baby-spider-monkey imitation and Dean is impressed by the way Sam’s girlfriend is handling it.

“Hey there, baby girl,” Dean announces as Sam pushes him alongside Jess and he reaches up, touching Allie’s butt. 

The girl pauses her tears, hiccups, and twists. When she doesn’t see anything, she looks down, finally laying eyes on him. She hiccups and lunges, almost throwing herself out of Jess’ hold. Jess bends slightly and transfers the girl from her hip into Dean’s lap.

And Dean’s got his arms full of trembling, sobbing four-year-old. Her knee is digging into his hip and he shifts against the pain, subtly moving her leg so it’s pinned between his thigh and the armrest of the wheelchair instead. He leans forward, using his body to shield her from Sam and Jess and wipes at her face with his flannel shirt. And between sobs, he makes out tumbling words, all quiet babble intended just for him. 

“I’m sorry… I’ll be good… Please don’t go…” A pause. “I’ll say anything…”

Dean hugs her tighter to him, closing his eyes against the burn of tears. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to talk if you don’t wanna. Daddy’s here.”

Allie raises her dripping face from his sodden shirt and Dean kisses her forehead, presses his nose against hers. “Ohana means family,” he quotes one of her favorite movies. “And family means nobody gets left behind.” He squeezes her. “And I’ll never leave you. Not as long as I can help it.” Allie tilts up her chin, eyes glimmering wetly. She kisses him sloppily on the lips, and plasters herself to him again.

His hip is beginning to ache and he knows he needs to lie down again. Sam must sense it because he gently lifts Allie off Dean’s lap. “What do you say we go home, Bean, and take care of your dad, huh?” Allie nods at him, clearly exhausted from crying, and Sam hands her off to Jess. He leans down, wraps a hand around Dean’s tricep and pulls Dean to his feet.

For a moment, Dean whites out and when his vision clears, he’s sitting in the rear passenger seat beside Allie’s car seat.

* * *

He’s lying on his side on the pull-out bed, weight off his bad leg. He shifts, squirms uncomfortably, futilely trying to find a comfortable position; his hip is a hot fireball of pulsating agony, the painkillers not even blunting the pain, and for a moment he wonders if he’s made a mistake checking out of the hospital so early.

Allie rises from where she was squatting in front of the TV and crosses to his side, three cases of DVDs in her small hands. She lays them out neatly and climbs up onto the mattress.

“Pick,” she says grandly, as though she’s granting him a huge privilege. Her voice is low and quiet from disuse and has a hesitant quality as though she isn’t sure of it just yet.

He indulges her and points to _Lilo and Stitch_.

Just then, Jess enters the room, carrying a steaming bowl, and he closes his eyes, trying not to groan.

Allie picks up the _Lilo and Stitch_ case and thrusts it toward Jess.

Jess sets the bowl on the wobbly TV tray that is their bedside table and wipes her hands dry on the front of her shirt, leaving wet streaks. She takes the DVD and slides it into the player, turning on the television and, with a press of a button on the remote, skips the previews and starts the movie. Allie smiles in gratitude and settles herself by Dean’s head.

“You ready?” Jess asks gently, lifting the quilt and sheet covering him but still shielding his hip, leg, and everything else from his daughter’s view. Dean nods against the pillow and fists his hand in the sheets. It’s not the first time he’s done this but damn if each time didn’t hurt as much as the first. He keeps his eyes trained on the chubby Hawaiian girl. Disney’s losing their touch, he thinks, clenching his jaw. They don’t make babes like they used to... He feels Jess tug the leg of his boxer shorts down until it’s just above his knee. Then a very hot, damp, towel is slapped on his hip.

He slams his eyes shut at the pain and hisses through clenched teeth, almost bucking. He’s sweating and shaking and he knows Jess is still there, but all he’s aware of is the tiny hand gripping his hair. It should hurt, but instead all it does is distract him from the fire licking his hip.

The heat cools, becomes bearable and it feels awesome, a steady warmth radiating until it reaches badly-sprained muscles and ligaments. His hip loosens marginally and he’s able to open his eyes and take a few breaths. He becomes aware of her petting his hair.

“You did good. I’ll be back in twenty with ice,” Jess says and he hears her depart.

He cranes his neck and meets Allie’s gaze. Her eyes are huge and green and slightly wet-looking, but there’s a stubborn, resolved set to her jaw that makes him swallow. Her fingers are still stroking his hair and he shifts his upper body closer, pressing his forehead to her knee, as she returns her eyes to the movie. Dean blankly stares at the TV for long moments and drifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	10. To Be a Rock and Not to Roll

“No, sir,” Dean’s voice is steady as he swallows convulsively, his nerves thrumming.

“What was that?” John’s question is low, sharp. Dangerous.

Another swallow. “No. I’m not going with you. I’ll help with the research, prep the weapons, make you more shotgun shells, fix the EMF, whatever. But I’m not going with you. I’m sorry but the answer’s no. Just… no.”

“Dean, it’s been a year since the accident. Your leg’s is fine. I need you covering my back. Besides, you won’t be doing any running. I’ll be doing the heavy lifting. All you have to do is man the sniper rifle.”

“Actually, it’s been two.” Dean licks suddenly dry lips, spreads his arms out to either side of him, palms open outwards. “And it’s still no. You can take Sam if you can talk him into it. Or find someone else. I’m out. I’m done.”

“If it’s got to do with that…”

“It has nothing to do with the damn leg!” Dean explodes. “Fuck, Dad. If you’d asked me a couple years ago, then yeah, I’d been all over it, crutches included. I’d gone with you and been outta here in a heartbeat—”

There’s a sharp gasp, a hiccup of sound. Dean twists in time to see a pair of white-socked feet disappear up the staircase and there’s the muffled sound of a slamming door. 

He drops his voice to a more normal tone, the fire suddenly extinguished. “But everything’s different now, Dad. Things’ve changed. I’ve retired.”

“So come back out. Brett Favre did it enough times.”

“You actually know who Brett Favre is?” Dean lets out a humorless bark of a laugh, looking at his father incredulously. His voice wavers slightly. “Scratch that — D’you even know what sport Favre plays? If you excuse me, I have something I need to do.” 

Dean turns to stalk up the stairs when John grabs his arm into a viselike grip, fingers digging into biceps, triceps. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me. You’re still my son.”

Dean jerks his arm out of his father’s grip. “Like I’ve said, things’ve changed. Excuse me, Sir.”

* * *

“C’mon, baby girl, open up.” Dean presses his shoulder against the doorframe, raises his hand to knock again on the locked door. He knows he could do quick work on the lock, bust his way in, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

There’s no answer and it doesn’t surprise him.

He leans his back against the wall, slides down until he’s sitting on the floor. “I know you heard me down there,” he tells her, stretching out his right leg and drawing up his other, resting his forearm on his knee. “And I know you’re mad… Can’t say I blame you.” He pauses, picks at the lint in the Berber carpet.

“You know I didn’t mean it, right?” He takes a breath. “I’m really sorry and I promise — I’m not going anywhere.”

And he pretends not to hear the door click.

* * *

“What has gotten into your brother? I don’t like that new tone of his.”

Sam pauses in wiping the glass dry. He takes a fortifying breath and sets the glass carefully in its place on the cupboard shelf. It’s one of Allie’s: a cartoon Tom chasing Jerry around the circumference. 

“I take it he told you he wasn’t going with you,” Sam says evenly.

“You heard?”

“Kind of hard not to. I think there were a couple of neighbors who hadn’t heard,” he releases his breath. “Dean’s right, though. Everything’s different for him now.”

“What d’you mean? Of course it has — that was a horrible accident. But he doesn’t have to be afraid… best way to get over it is to get back in the saddle.”

“It has nothing to do with fear. Don’t you even know him, Dad?” Sam doesn’t bother reigning in his frustration. “Hell, Dad. Dean’s not scared and even if he were, he’d have gone solo on a hunt just to prove he wasn’t. Fuck, he already did — he exorcised the ghost from this house…” He cuts himself off and takes a breath. “He has a daughter.”

There’s a drop in barometer pressure.

“Come again?”

Sam swallows. “That’s why he won’t go with you. His priorities’ve all changed. He’s got a kid to think about now. It’s not you. It’s just… She comes first, now.”

“A girl?”

“Yeah,” Sam feels himself smile automatically and lets out a wry chuckle. “She’s a handful, as sweet as they come, and every inch her father’s daughter.”

“How old? When? Didn’t he use a fucking condom?”

Sam’s throat closes up again. “I think that should come from Dean.” He swallows, decides to risk it. “D’you want to see her? Your granddaughter?”

John nods, expression still dark.

“C’mon.” Sam leads him silently back through the living room and up the stairs. He stops halfway up the staircase, puts a hand out. “Don’t let them see you…” he whispers, before pointing.

Dean’s sitting on the floor, Allie clinging to him like some kind of limpet, his back pressed against the doorjamb. Beyond the open doorway, the room is the pastel color of strawberry ice cream with fluffy white-and-yellow-and-peach striped curtains billowing softly in the summer breeze. 

“How old?” John whispers.

“She’ll be six in a few weeks — July seventeenth — and starting Kindergarten in September.” Sam feels himself smile. “She’s really something. She’s sweet and sassy and stubborn and…”

* * *

“…So that’s it and I’ve been raising her since August 2005. Bobby’s been helping — he got my ID cleaned up and I’ve been collecting disability. I’m going to look for a job once she starts school… maybe at the garage down the street. But until then… She’s my responsibility. And that’s why I won’t hunt. I can’t. I’m all she’s got.”

“Okay,” John nods. “Can’t say I like your new tone, but okay. You’re off limits.”

Dean exhales a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Thanks. I don’t mind helping with the research or the weapons and you can stop by anytime… I just…”

“Won’t hunt.”

“Won’t risk her,” Dean corrects. “She isn’t going to be collateral damage. The cause stops with me, Dad.”

“She looks like Mary,” John whispers, nodding at the sleeping girl on Dean’s lap.

“I figured.”

“Could…” He takes a breath. “I’d like to come back. To see her. Once in a while.”

“You’re always welcome here but only if either Sam or I are around. I’m sorry, Dad, but…” he exhales. “You have a habit of letting people down. And I’m not going to see her get hurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	11. Sometimes Words Have Two Meanings

“This is Mrs. Sherwood from the main office. May I please speak to Mr. Winchester? It concerns his daughter…”

* * *

“Mr. Winchester…”

“It’s Dean,” he cuts in. “Dean’s fine.”

“Very well, Dean,” Miss Davis blinks at him, slightly taken aback. “I’m a bit concerned about Alexis…”

“It’s Allie. She doesn’t like being called Alexis.” He swallows. “It reminds her too much of her Mom.”

Miss Davis nods. “I see. And I would like to speak to you about Allie’s mother. Earlier this week, I had the class draw pictures of their families—” she gestures to the crude, marker-drawn pictures lining one of the walls around waist-height. “—And as you can see, most of them contain a mother and father. Siblings, for some of them.” She exhales, flips over the construction paper and Dean recognizes Allie’s work. 

There are two figures, a tall one with way too much obscene orange hair and a black scribble where the body is supposed to be — his leather jacket, he guesses — and a little one with long yellow hair sticking downwards like bunches of straw. Above them is the outline of a blue cloud and a red ladder-type structure besides the girl stretching from the bottom of the page to the cloud.

“As you can see, Allie’s is quite different,” the teacher says quietly, “Frankly, it’s a bit disturbing.”

If you think that’s disturbing, lady, then I hate to break it to you — you ain’t seen nothing. “I see,” is all he says. “And why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, there’s only you and her…” the teacher swallows, her expression growing concerned. “and then there’s the cloud — I do encourage creativity in all my students and Allie is obviously very bright, but she did not follow instructions, the assignment was to illustrate their families, not take liberties by drawing ladders to the sky—”

“That’s not a ladder,” Dean interrupts, understanding. “It’s a staircase.” His throat suddenly feeling tight, knowing how much it must’ve hurt his daughter to draw even this much. “Allie did follow your instructions. She did draw her parents and herself like you told her to do…” He inhales and exhales slowly. “Allie’s mother was murdered in a bar brawl when she was four. We weren’t married and never lived together. But when her mother was killed, CPS somehow tracked me down and I became her legal guardian.” He watches the growing horror on Miss Davis’s face and he almost feels sorry for the girl. This was probably not something she signed up for when she decided to become a teacher. “One of the things Allie’s mother did was sing Stairway to Heaven. I know Allie still remembers that much.” He swallows. “So, yeah, Allie did follow your instructions. Maybe it was unconventional, maybe it wasn’t what you wanted or expected, but she did do what you asked of her.” He taps the cloud, the staircase. “She drew her mother the best way she knew how.” He sits back, silent.

Miss Davis swallows visibly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know about her mother… I try to have all parents and guardians fill out forms and inform me and the school about potential issues…”

“And I did. There’s no issues. Her mother was in the wrong place, wrong time. That’s all.”

“But information like this is instrumental in helping us understand the child and…”

“Now you know. Does it change anything?”

“Well, no, but it…”

“There are no buts. Any other concerns?”

“Are you the only adult figure in Allie’s life? It’s not always good for there to be a lack of a female individual in a girl’s life…”

“Are you implying I’m a bad parent? I work at the garage — I think I even changed the oil of your car last week. Volkswagen Jetta, right? 2006 model, if I’m not mistaken. I keep her clean, sheltered, fed…” Dean lets his voice harden. “We live with my brother and his girlfriend… Or is that a bit too unconventional?”

* * *

“Thank you for coming again on such a short notice, Mr. Winchester. Please, have a seat,” she gestures at the tiny desk. Dean blinks at her and then turns back to the chair. There’s no way it’s going to work with his thigh. “Thank you Miss Davis, but I’d rather stand. What seems to be the problem?”

“Alexis is a fine student, she works hard…”

“Please just cut to the chase. What’s the problem with Allie?”

The teacher exhales, puffing out her cheeks. “She punched Tommy Rosen at recess today. Gave him a black eye. As you may be aware, we do not condone fighting.”

“Did she give a reason why?”

She shakes her head. “No. We asked and she refused to give an answer, and unless she apologizes, she’ll need to be suspended for a couple of days. It will not go on her permanent record, obviously, but it is entirely unacceptable behavior.”

Dean nods. “I agree. I will speak to her about this.”

* * *

“So I hear you punched Tommy today,” Dean says evenly, sitting on the edge of the bed, grimacing slightly as he stretches out his bad leg before him. “D’you want to tell me why?”

He doesn’t look at her, just sits there on her pink comforter, staring down at his loosely clasped hands, listening to her tense, nervous breathing. 

“I’m not mad… Did you punch Tommy?”

“Y-yeah.” The word is quiet.

“Did you really give him a black eye?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is steadier, but still barely clears a whisper.

It takes every amount of willpower he has not to grin. He bites hard on the inside of his lower lip, composes himself, and is proud of himself when his voice comes out steady, neutral. “Why would you do that?”

“Because he made fun of me…” She bursts into tears, crying hard and fast, breath hiccupping. “All week it’s been Mommy Week and everyone’s mommies came in and they read to us and bring cupcakes or cookies…” She’s suddenly out from under the covers and in his arms, soaking his shirt with sobs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it… I didn’t want to make you mad.”

“Aw, hey, I’m not mad. Why didn’t you tell me it was Mommy Week?”

A sniffle. “Because you’re not a girl.”

“You could’ve asked Auntie Jess…”

She shakes her head against his sternum. “But I didn’t want Auntie Jess… I love her but…”

“She’s not mom,” Dean squeezes her. “It’s okay. I know.” He tilts his face down, kisses the top of her head, rubbing his hand up and down the length of her back. “D’you want me to go to school with you tomorrow?”

“I’m not s’posed to…”

“It’s okay. I fixed it. They said you could go back as long as you told Tommy you’re sorry.”

“What if I’m not?”

“Well, that’s what we call a white lie. It’s something you say to fix things even if you don’t think that way. Like telling Tommy you’re sorry. The fact Tommy’s a poopy-head—” she giggles “—will be our little secret, okay?”

She nods, relaxing. “I’m sorry I hid the note about Mommy Week. I didn’t want…”

“Shhh. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’m not mad. I’ll fix it. Think you can sleep?”

She nods as he settles her back onto the bed. A breath and then, “Stay?”

He toes off his boots, lays down besides her on the too-small bed, drawing up his knees. It’s crap for his thigh, but he doesn’t care. She snuggles up against him.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, baby girl.”

* * *

Dean pads into the kitchen, carrying his boots in one hand, bottle of aspirin in the other.

“You have got to either stop sleeping in her bed or spring for a bigger one,” Sam says, not looking up from his textbook, writing something down in a notebook.

“Yeah. Like you haven’t,” Dean flips him the finger as he drops his boots with a thud by the door on his way to the cupboard. He takes a glass down — it’s one of their yard sale finds, with Pebbles Flintstone riding a dinosaur that looks suspiciously like Yoshi printed on the side — and fills it with water. Swallowing down a pair of aspirins, he exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand.

“Rough day?” Sam looks up, brow furrowing.

Dean lets out a rough bark of a laugh. “That’s an understatement. She gave one of her classmates a black eye—”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Had my ass dragged into an emergency one-on-one Parent-Teacher conference this afternoon and everything. It’s okay as long as she apologizes and doesn’t do it again. Otherwise she’s suspended for a couple of days.” Dean exhales slowly.

“Did she say why?”

“The little prick made fun of her not having a mother show up for Mommy Week.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Dean rummages in the fridge, pulls out a beer bottle and pops off the cap on the edge of the Formica countertop. He takes a swig and suddenly grins. “Her right hook is kind of awesome.”

“Dean…”

“What? It is!” He sets down the beer. “Now where is the brownie mix? I’ve just been suckered into representing Daddies-Who-Are-Also-Mommies tomorrow because apparently no one else in her class had their mother die bloody.”

“It should be in the cupboard above the fridge to the left,” Sam’s voice comes from behind him. There’s a pause. Then: “I think you make a great Mommy. You were always totally the girl.”

* * *

“I’m Allie’s Daddy…” Dean tells the semi-circle of thirteen Kindergartners, sitting cross-legged and at rapt attention. He supposes he’s the only Dad to show up for Mommy Week, which makes him something of a vague celebrity. “But I also do Mommy things. In some families, there’s only one big person and he has to be both Mommy and Daddy.” He glances up and the teacher’s nod encourages him. “Allie doesn’t have a Mommy anymore and that’s why I do the best I can.” He meets his daughter’s adoring gaze. “Allie, can you help me out here?” He pats his left thigh and she’s in his lap before he can blink. “Tell them some of the Daddy things I do.”

“He fixes cars and got a big black one THIS BIG.” Dean ducks his head back in time to avoid his daughter’s flinging arm. “An’ he colors an’ plays with me. But not dolls and house… that’s Auntie Jess…” She falls silent for a moment.

“Great. What are some of the Mommy things I do?”

“You braid my hair in the morning an’ you sing Led Zeppelin an’ you make sure I brush my teeth an’ tuck me in th’ way mommy used to. An’ when I don’t feel good, you make me drink orange juice and take yucky medicine. An’ sometimes, when Auntie Jess isn’t home, you cook an’ clean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	12. The Piper Will Lead Us to Reason

“Winchester! Phone!” Mike shouts across the garage. Dean flinches at the sound; extracting himself from under the hood of the red Camarro with the crap engine he’s been working over and grabs his cane, limping over to the office phone. “It’s the school,” Mike adds.

“Hello. Dean Winchester, speaking,” He wedges the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he wipes his oil-stained hands with an equally oily rag.

“Mr. Winchester, this is Mrs. Sherwood from the main office. Would it be possible for you to pick up Alexis? She doesn’t feel too well.”

Dean glances up at Mike who’s still leaning on the counter and mouths _Allie’s sick_ to him. Mike instantly nods, making a go ahead gesture with his hand, which Dean accepts gratefully. “Yeah. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hangs up. “I know you’re swamped, but…”

“Dude, you’re one of my best workers. Don’t worry about it. She’s a kid. It happens. I’ve got three of them — they’re all grown up now but when they were kids, it happened at least twice a school term. Take the afternoon off. Look after her. Give her orange juice, some Tylenol, tuck her in, the whole shebang. The Camarro’ll still be here in the morning. If you ask me, it’s salvage yard material. Body’s gorgeous but the engine’s worth crap.”

“Thanks. And if you need a good Salvage, I know a guy out in South Dakota. It’s a bit out of the way by about five states and through the Rockies, but he runs a clean, honest business.”

* * *

Dean signs in at the front desk, his signature a messy scrawl. Even though it’s been two years since he’s quit the life, it still takes him a moment to remember that he doesn’t have aliases anymore and it’s still weird to see his real name in his own signature.

The tiny, white-haired secretary glances up at him, smiles from behind the Plexiglas window. She taps the tiny, round webcam balanced precariously on a tiny tripod. “Look right here please,” she says and a moment later prints out a visitor’s name badge. “I’ll need your license or a photo ID.” She threads her hand through the bank-teller slot at the bottom of the window, the sticky, white label stuck to one finger. 

Dean rolls his eyes. Somehow he doesn’t remember it being this restrictive when he was a kid.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, but it’s school policy,” Mrs. Sherwood frowns sadly. “I’m afraid things have changed quite a bit since you've been in school...”

Dean shrugs, slaps the label on upside down across his right breast pocket. “It’s not your fault.” He slides his California-issued driver’s license through the opening. “Demons I get, people are crazy,” he mumbles to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Where’s the nurse’s office?”

“Right this way,” She rises from her desk and opens a door to her left, admitting him. “It’s the second door to your right.”

The one with the sign that says NURSE, got it, Dean thinks. But he doesn’t verbalize it. “Thanks,” he tells the secretary. He likes her — she puts up with a lot of crap and isn’t paid nearly enough. Not to mention he knows her car’s a junker and she can’t afford to keep it up.

He figures they’re square.

He raps gently on the glass window of the door. The blind is closed so he can’t see inside. A moment later it opens and he comes face-to-face with a young, stocky blonde fresh out of nursing school. She’s wearing a smock that has old-school Smurfs printed all over it and he awards her a mental point. 

“Yes?”

“I’m Dean Winchester and I’m here to pick up Allie… Alexis,” he adds quickly when he sees the nurse’s blank look. 

“Come right in, I’m so glad you were able to come so quickly. She really doesn’t feel well.”

Dean steps into the cool, darkened room and there’s only one kid in the room, a little girl curled up on the farthest cot. 

Dean goes to her and crouches, even though it makes his thigh tighten and twinge uncomfortably.

“The chicken pox is making its way through the Kindergarten and First Grade classes,” the nurse’s saying, her voice low and soft. “I’d bet my college loans that’s what she has.”

Dean glances up at her. “Thanks. I got it from here. Fluids, rest, oatmeal baths?” He guesses, flashing her a grin and even in the dusky light he sees it makes her blush. Still got it, he thinks as he turns back to his daughter who’s doing her best hedgehog impression.

He reaches out, strokes her sweaty bangs from her forehead. They stick to her temples and he can feel the heat radiating off her skin. He frowns at her. “Aw, baby girl. You don’t feel good?”

She opens her eyes and they’re all glassy, glittering with fever. “I dunno. I don't feel like eating cake or pizza, so I guess I must be sick.” She raises her hand and swipes at her face and he doesn’t miss the salty tracks on her cheeks.

“Cake _or_ pizza?” Dean echoes, feigning shock. “What about pie?”

She rocks her head against the pillow, fresh tears making their appearance. “I’m hot and I’m cold and I’m tired but I can’t sleep.” She swallows back a hiccup. “I wanna go home.”

“Aw, hey, it’s okay. I gotcha. C’mere.” Dean rises to his feet and bends over her. “I gotcha,” he says as he gets his hands around her torso, her skinny arms reaching up to wind around his neck. He hefts her up and she immediately buries her face in the junction between his shoulder and neck. “We’re gonna go home.”

* * *

“Dean?” Jess glances up from where she’s washing the dishes. “What’re you doing home so early. Is Allie okay?”

She crosses the tiny kitchen to his side. 

“It’s fine. She just came down with something at school. They think it might be the chicken pox.”

Jess frowns sadly at the lethargic girl and reaches out, pressing the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead. “She’s definitely got a fever. I’ll call Sam and have him pick up some ginger ale and calamine lotion and oatmeal on his way back from the office. You go get her cleaned up and changed and set her up on the living room couch. I’ll be over there in a bit and I’ll make something bland she can eat later.”

“Thanks, Jess.”

* * *

“I hate you, Dean… and I hate your kid…” Sam moans miserably, dropping onto the kitchen chair, hands groping the crotch of his sweatpants beneath the table and pulling at them, fingers scrabbling. “Even my dick has spots…”

Allie looks up from her seat, yellow crayon hovering over the coloring book page. She looks over at Dean, who’s got his head buried in his arms. “Daddy?” she says, returning to her coloring, scribbling hard between the lines. “What’s a dick?”

* * *

Jess picks Allie up and walks over to the rocking chair and settles in it, her arms and lap full of feverish girl wrapped up in a fleece blanket. “The time has come, the Walrus said,” she begins reciting, her voice soft and rhythmic, hand guiding the girl’s head to her shoulder and stroking the sweaty, blond bangs from her forehead:

_To talk of many things:_  
_Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—_  
_Of cabbages—and kings—_  
_And why the sea is boiling hot—_  
_And whether pigs have wings._

She glances up and sees both Sam and Dean watching her, faces flushed and sweaty with breaking fever, eyes glittery and hard, hanging on her every word. Suddenly an iron band clenches around her heart, constricts. They’ve never had this, she realizes. 

Beginning to rock, she wraps an arm securely around the tiny, miserable girl and reaches out with her other hand for the copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ she was reading out loud to Allie the other night. Resting the paperback book against her thighs, she flips quickly through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for within the _Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There_ section, and begins to read from the beginning:

_The sun was shining on the sea,_  
_Shining with all his might:_  
_He did his very best to make_  
_The billows smooth and bright—_  
_And this was odd, because it was_  
_The middle of the night…?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	13. The Dance at the Gym

The elementary school gym is trussed up almost beyond recognition. Red and blue and white streamers are twisted across the ceiling, stretching from each corner to gather at a bunch of similarly colored balloons in the center of the room. There’s a DJ set up on the slightly elevated platform that serves as a stage.

Dean stoops slightly, offering his seven-year-old date his elbow, which she takes per Jess’ instructions. She’s wearing a new dress they’d found at the thrift shop and her hair is loose for once, all wavy and curled from the permanent braid. It’s already darker than it was when he’d first met her three years ago, more honey than corn-silk and he figures it’ll be closer to his own by the time all’s said and done than his own mom’s ever was — if the old pictures are anything to go by.

He escorts her to one of the round tables set up along the perimeter, choosing one that’s near the exit, right beneath the electronic wall-mounted scoreboard. 

He slides in besides her and grins as he watches her take in the transformed gym with wonder. It’s cheesy as hell and he can still smell cafeteria mystery meat, sweaty prepubescent boys, and old uniforms underneath it all, but she obviously doesn’t see the gym beneath the thin crepe veneer and he isn’t going to spoil it for her.

* * *

He catches up to her just outside the entrance. She’s sitting on the concrete steps, hunched up, her face hiding behind her hands. He sits besides her. After a moment, catching her slight shudder, he shrugs out of his black sportscoat and drapes it around her shoulders. He presses one hand against her back, reaching up to loosen his tie with the other, waiting. 

After a long moment, she quiets and lifts her face from her hands. It’s splotchy and red and ugly from her tears. Dean rubs her back and uses the cuff of his dress shirt to wipe her face. Her lower lip wobbles and Dean can tell she’s trying not to throw herself into his lap.

He leans forward and tugs her in for a hug. There’s a tight, hiccupping sob. “Y’not mad?” The mumble is hot and wet against his throat and he feels her hold tighten.

He squeezes her. “No. I’m not mad. It’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


	14. Field Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** The original inspiration for this fic can be found [here](https://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/highschool-prep-rally/inspiring-elementary-schooler-cerebral-palsy-runs-amazing-400-154523256.html)

“Hey, baby girl,” Dean says softly, peeking into Allie’s bedroom and he sees her eyes reflecting the hall light. “Still up?”

The tiny head on the pillow nods. “I can’t sleep,” she whispers.

He steps into the room, padding on socked feet and sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s eatin' you? Anything you wanna talk about?”

She hesitates, fingers toying with the fraying satin ears of the stuffed bunny she sleeps with. Then: “Why are people so mean?”

The question catches him off guard.

He exhales slowly, taking the moment to think through. “I dunno. What makes you ask that?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes and shifts her hold on her bunny. “There’s this boy in my class…” Dean presses his lips together and resists the urge to cut her off and remind her that hell to the freakin’ no you can’t date until you’re thirty. “...and he’s really really nice and he’s funny...” _Yep, eleven’s definitely too young_, Dean thinks and he opens his mouth to tell her so when Allie finishes “...but he’s different. He’s slower than everyone else and he walks weird, kinda like you do sometimes but not really, and he jerks around a lot and sometimes he’s hard to understand...” She pauses and Dean senses she’s winding up for the curveball. He braces himself. “I like him,” she says simply, shrugging a bit against the pillow. “But a lot of the other kids don’t. They’re mean to him and they pick on him and he’s always picked last for gym. Today someone stole his lunch so I shared mine. Can I have an extra sandwich tomorrow. Just in case? No one steals mine.”

Dean swallows hard, struck by his daughter’s sensitivity. “Yeah, you can have an extra sandwich. D’you want extra cookies too? But I think you should tell the teacher.”

She nods but judging by her expression, Dean knows she isn’t done. “The teachers all know but there’s nothing they can do...” her breath hitches. “Why are they so mean? He never did anything to them...”

“I don’t know, baby girl. Wish I could tell you. But I promise I’ll let you know when I figure that one out, okay?”

“Okay,” her answer is quick, easy. Trusting.

“I’m proud of you, you know?” Dean tells her. “You’re badass.” He leans forward and kisses her on the forehead. “Think you can sleep now?”

She shifts, rubs the fraying satin beneath her thumb. “I... I feel bad for him, dad. Especially in gym. But I don’t want to lose either. And we have to pick partners tomorrow. If it was something like Science or something like that I wouldn’t mind. But it’s _gym_. What should I do?”

“I can’t tell you. I wish I could. But you’re going to have to figure that one out yourself,” Dean tells her, his voice soft. “But I will tell you that no matter what you decide, I will always be proud of you and right now I’m prouder of you than anyone else in the world.”

She sniffs. “But why do I feel so crappy?”

* * *

“Are you going to come for the race tomorrow?” Allie asks him over rice and chicken one night.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Dean tells her. “Already got the time off for it. I’m going to have to work later tomorrow, after the race, so Auntie Jess is going to pick you up after school, okay?”

* * *

“DAD!” Allie sprints up to him, all bright smiles and sunburned cheeks, her braid swinging behind her. She flings her arms around him and hugs him tightly, still all unaffected child. He wonders if she’s still going to be this uninhibited in a couple of years.

“Told you I’d make it.”

“C’mon,” she tugs at his hand, dragging him over to a knot of parents by a marked-off grassy bit of track, the lines all shaky and day-glo orange. Most of them are in business suits, clearly on their lunch hour. There’s a few mothers in jeans and t-shirts and white sandals and Dean suddenly feels self-conscious about his mechanic jumpsuit.

“This is Matt,” she announces without preamble and Dean looks down at a kid that barely clears his daughter’s shoulder, arms and legs bent at odd angles. “Matt, this is my dad.”

Dean bends slightly, holds out his hand. “Hey man. Awesome to meet you.” 

Matt slaps his palm against his, the movement uncoordinated. “Allie’s my friend,” he says, his voice thick.

* * *

He’s standing behind the cheap, hastily-constructed barrier of wooden stakes and pink trail-marking tape when a woman comes up to him. “Are you Allie’s father?”

He stiffens, forces himself to relax. “Yeah. Dean,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand. Belatedly, he notices the oil smeared on his fingers and the back of his hand.

She hesitates for the briefest of moments before taking his hand and shaking it. “I’m Sophia. I’m Matt’s mom. I just want you to know that you have quite the daughter. At home, she’s all Matt ever talks about. She’s one of the few who doesn’t bully him.” Her voice is sad. “We’re transferring him next year... he had a rough year.”

Dean nods. He feels as though he should say something to make her feel better. “Allie talks about Matt a lot too — he’s one of her best friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


End file.
